


Matthews, A History

by Jestana



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:56:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jestana/pseuds/Jestana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on Matthews' backstory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attachment

**Author's Note:**

> Take note of the main pairing. If you don't like it, go elsewhere. Beta by Mylodon on LJ.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Matthews' life up until his early 20's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no actual romance in this chapter, just Matthews and Styles meeting and becoming friends.

**Attachment**

Ben Matthews had learned early on in his life not to become emotionally attached to any person. It would only hurt him in the long run. His parents had sailed to America before he was born in hopes of trying their fortunes there. They'd been moderately successful in Pennsylvania, but his father had been thrown while riding when Ben was seven. His mother had been forced to sell their farm and move them to Philadelphia, where she was able to support them by washing and mending others' clothes. For his part, Ben roamed the city freely, spending a great deal of his time at the docks. He learned to swim there and would often watch the merchant ships being unloaded, admiring the way the sailors handled the ropes and lines with ease and deftness.

The battles of Lexington and Concord early in 1775 worried his mother and she sought passage for them to their home country. She kept to their cabin during the journey, the cough that had always plagued her becoming harsh and wracking her almost constantly. About a month into their voyage, when twelve-year-old Ben tried to wake her, she refused to be awakened. She was dead and Ben was quite alone. He had relatives in England, of course, but he didn't know them in the slightest and wondered what would become of him. He had his answer about a week after his mother died. A British sloop gave chase to their vessel, catching and boarding her after pursuing her for three days and nights.

The American captain had tried to hide Ben, giving him a dagger with which to defend himself, but it proved a futile effort. He was captured along with the rest of the surviving crew, and given a chance to work for his supper aboard the sloop, called the _Journeyman_. He agreed, since he really had no ties and would have had a hard time of it if the ship's surgeon, Dr. Harman, and the boatswain, Mr. MacDougall, hadn't taken it upon themselves to watch over him. Dr. Harman made him his loblolly boy while he was still learning his way around the ship, and learning what he would be expected to do as a seaman. Mr. MacDougall was the one who taught him those very things, as well as providing him with a rudimentary knowledge of the Royal Navy.

By they time they made port in England, Ben was doing his share of the work as well as helping Dr. Harman in the sickbay. Ben had proven himself willing to learn and work hard, so the captain agreed to make him a member of his crew. So it was that, at the tender age of twelve, Ben Matthews became a seaman in the British Royal Navy. Since Pennsylvania was still a British colony when Ben was born, he was just as British as any other man on the crew.

The twelve-year-old looked on the ship's surgeon and boatswain as kindly uncles, though he tried not to show his reliance on them too much. He didn't want the men to think he was a pansy, after all. While on shore leave, Dr. Harman took young Ben home with him to meet the missus. She was a kind lady and, upon hearing Ben's story, doted on him as if he was one of her own, of which she had several. The youngest had been born while his father was gone and he was just as fascinated with the babe as Ben was. His oldest son was a good five years younger than Ben and quite belligerent towards him at first. Once Dr. Harman took him aside and spoke with him, he was much more polite to Ben, but remained always rather cool. It was as if he viewed Ben as an interloper, which he was if the truth were told. In any case, Ben was relieved to be recalled to sea, though he wished he didn't have to leave Mrs. Harman and the children.

During the next six months or so, the _Journeyman_ spent most of her time at sea, stopping in at friendly ports mostly to restock supplies and give the men a little shore leave. Ben was content to spend more of his time with sedate, calm Dr. Harman rather than Mr. MacDougal, who could get very rowdy and loud when he was drunk. In the end, it was a good thing that Ben spent his shore leaves with the ship's surgeon rather than the boatswain. When Mr. MacDougal didn't show up at the ship on time, a search party from the ship was dispatched to search for him. He was found in an alley behind a tavern, naked and badly beaten. He was bundled back to sloop in short order, which then left port a few hours later.

Mr. MacDougal spent an agonizing two weeks in the sick bay before he finally succumbed to Death. He was given a proper burial at sea, but Ben and Dr. Harman were devastated. Though he didn't fully realize the implications of things he'd seen as the doctor's loblolly boy, Ben later came to suspect that Dr. Harman and Mr. MacDougal had been lovers. He was never able to confirm his suspicion, as the doctor was killed in action long before Ben realized his suspicions. Normally, the ship's surgeon would not be required to fight, but when an enemy ship is to be boarded, every last man fights with everything he has in him. Several months after Mr. MacDougal's death, the _Journeyman_ engaged an American privateer in battle and boarded her. Dr. Harman joined in the fighting and fell in the thick of battle.

With no ship's surgeon, the sloop returned to England with her prize in tow. By this time, Ben Matthews was a strapping lad of thirteen. He turned many female heads when he went ashore for his leave. He didn't notice because he was still grieving for the doctor's death. Not to mention the fact that he had to tell Mrs. Harman and her children about Dr. Harman's death. It had to have been the hardest thing he'd ever done and he hoped never to have to do it again.

Due to the captain's success at capturing prizes, he was given a larger ship and a chance to have any or all of his crew from the _Journeyman_ transferred with him. In the end, he only took a couple of the officers and the remaining boatswain with him. The crew left behind sat idly in the port as a new captain was given the _Journeyman_. Finally, after a week of waiting, Captain Renault arrived. He seemed a reasonable man, but it soon became apparent after they'd set sail that he was fonder of corporal punishment than their previous captain. Because Ben was still considered a boy, he was caned several times while he served under Renault. The pain itself was nothing to the acute embarrassment he felt at being put in such a position.

In any case, he transferred to another ship as quickly as possible and, with the colonies rebelling against England, he lost many comrades-in-arms. He became battle-hardened and darkly tanned from the hours he'd spent in the sun and salty sea air. His naturally wavy hair became perpetually curly and rarely returned to its natural waves, since his shore leaves were so brief. He never lacked for willing company, though. In his late teens by now, he was quite easy on feminine eyes. Some of his shipmates were jealous of his popularity with the ladies, but the older ones simply shook their heads and continued with whatever they were doing.

By the time England and the colonies (now the United States of America) reached peace, France had declared war on England. This was good for a seaman like Mr. Matthews because that meant he would still have a job. Though he probably wouldn't have chosen a life in the Navy for a living, it was the only one he knew now and couldn't imagine starting over in a new profession. With so many people dying and others joining the crew, he gave up trying to keep track of all of them. The only ones he bothered to get to know were the other men in his division. Even then, he rarely knew more than the basics about each of them. It was better that way; otherwise he would grieve too deeply each time one of them died. In his two or so decades of life, he'd already grieved over too many losses and had no desire to grieve more.

~*~*~*~

Then a scrawny lad all of fourteen years old was pressed into service. Like most men and boys who were pressed, the men who'd grabbed the lad, had knocked him out to keep him from struggling. Having served as a loblolly boy, Matthews had been drafted to sit with the lad and wait for him to wake up. He looked rather small and frail to twenty-two-year-old Matthews as he sat waiting and watching and he was surprised to find that he'd curled a hand into a fist as he surveyed the bruises to the lad's face and torso, indicators of a very fierce struggle before he'd been knocked out.

Before Matthews could ponder why he'd reacted that way, the lad woke with a vengeance, flinging up his hands as if to ward off a blow that wouldn't be coming. "Easy, lad. No one's going to hurt you here."

"Where am I?" the lad asked, glancing around with his good eye. The other had been blackened in his struggle with the men who'd grabbed him and was now swollen shut.

"You're on His Majesty's ship, the _Undying_ ," Matthews told him, keeping his voice low and quiet in hopes of keeping the lad from panicking.

"I'm on a ship?" he demanded, sitting bolt upright in the hammock, his good eye widened with shock. Then he clutched at his head and groaned.

"Easy, lad. You'll be sick if you don't lay still." Matthews tried to ease the boy back into the hammock. Unfortunately, the lad would not be eased back and struggled against Matthews. Then he gulped, his face turned green, and barely managed to get his head over the side of the wildly swinging hammock before he was violently sick, making a rather large mess on the deck. "I told you not to, lad."

"Oh, shut up," he moaned, slumping back into the hammock, his face still a little green and his expression utterly miserable underneath the bruises.

"Here, lad, you might want to wipe your face. It helps more often than not." Matthews offered the boy a warm, damp cloth. He cracked an eye open and reluctantly accepted the cloth, wiping his face with it. "What's your name, lad?"

"Matthew Styles," he replied, his voice hoarse as he returned the cloth to Matthews.

"Welcome aboard the _Undying_ , Mr. Styles," Matthews told him wryly as he cleaned up the mess Styles had made, his stomach roiling only slightly as he did so. "I'm Ben Matthews, an Able Seaman, and I'll be helping you settle in."

"What do you mean, 'settle in'?" Styles asked suspiciously, peering at Matthews over the edge of the hammock.

"Why else would you be knocked out and dragged aboard one of His Majesty's ships?" Matthews asked dryly, setting aside the cloth he'd used to clean up the mess to dispose of later.

"I'm not gonna stay here, you know," Styles told him matter-of-factly, obstinately folding his arms across his chest.

"I wouldn't say that too loudly or too often, lad," Matthews advised him, patting his shoulder. "You'll be caned for sure simply for talking about it."

"Caned?" The color drained from Styles' face, leaving him pale beneath the bruises.

"Aye, lad." Matthews nodded solemnly. "Only if I choose to report you to the captain, though."

"Will you?" Styles looked at him pleadingly.

Matthews shook his head. "Not this time. I suggest you keep any plans for desertion to yourself and give Navy life a try. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. I'll help you as much as I can."

"Thanks, Mr. Matthews," Styles replied, a small smile on his face.

Nodding, Matthews picked up the soiled cloth and left the sickbay, wondering why he felt so protective of a lad he barely knew.

~*~*~*~

Styles didn't settle into Navy life nearly as well as Matthews had, but then he hadn't chosen the life voluntarily. He only wished that Styles got into trouble less often. The ship's surgeon had taken care of Styles the first few times he'd earned himself a punishment, but Matthews was given the task after Styles got himself into trouble a fourth time. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself into trouble, lad?"

"Wouldn't you if you'd been forced into this?" Styles muttered into his pillow, flinching when Matthews wiped blood away from a particularly tender spot on his rear.

Matthews sighed, exasperated. "If you keep on like this, you won't be alive to desert by the time we make port somewhere."

"I hadn't thought o' that," Styles grumbled, wincing as Matthews helped him pull his smalls and pants up. It was the first time either of them had mentioned Styles' intention of deserting the first chance he was given and Matthews hoped it would be the last.

Matthews shook his head. "I haven't seen you do much of that since you came aboard. You might want to try it, for once."

Styles groaned when Matthews patted his bottom and left him to swing quietly in his hammock with plenty of time to think about his actions.

~*~*~*~

After that, Styles settled down, though that didn't always keep him from getting in trouble sometimes, but at least he didn't do it deliberately. Matthews was sure Styles still planned on deserting, but he made sure that Styles knew there would be men on shore ready to keep men from deserting and they would have no compunctions about knocking someone out if they had to. Styles simply insisted that he wasn't going to get caught. All Matthews could do was keep an eye on the lad and allow him to learn from his mistakes. It seemed to be the only way anything would penetrate his thick skull.

Matthews was just finishing his supper on his first night of shore leave when Styles all but slunk into the common room, glancing around. Once he spotted Matthews, he made his way to his side and slumped onto the bench beside him. "No way past the guards?"

"None," Styles muttered, accepting the ale Matthews slid towards him and taking a healthy swallow of the stuff. At least he'd learned to be respectful to his superiors.

"You might as well resign yourself to the life, lad," Matthews suggested, gesturing for another ale from the innkeeper. "It can be hard at times, but at least you'll get to travel and see more of the world than most people." Styles grunted, deep into his tankard. Matthews nodded to the innkeeper when he brought over another tankard and handed him a few coins. They ate and drank in silence, Styles taking up the other ale when the older of the two indicated that he could have it. Once the ale and food were gone, Matthews stood up and tugged on Styles' arm. "Come on, lad, let's get you up to bed. You'll feel better once you've slept on it."

Grumbling under his breath, Styles let Matthews pull him to his feet and stumbled along beside Matthews up the stairs to the bedrooms. Once in the room Matthews had rented, Styles headed straight for the bed and tumbled into it, fully-clothed. Shaking his head, Matthews eased him under the covers before going through his ablutions and slipping under them as well. Grunting in his sleep, Styles rolled towards Matthews and, much to his consternation, curled up against him. He was no stranger to sharing a bed with a man, but this was the first time a bedmate hadn't kept to his own side. Cautiously, he wrapped an arm around the lad's shoulders and slowly relaxed, falling asleep once he had.

~*~*~*~

He woke to the sound of someone being violently sick in the room's chamber pot. Upon opening his eyes and sitting up, he spotted Styles kneeling over the aforementioned chamber pot. "Don't have much of a head for alcohol, do you, lad?"

"My head hurts," Styles moaned, just before he was sick again.

Matthews nodded and quietly got dressed before going downstairs and requesting the innkeeper's remedy for the aftereffects of too much alcohol. When he returned to the room, Styles was slumped against the wall, eyes closed as he tried to keep his stomach from rebelling again. "Here, lad, this will help."

"God, that stuff smells awful," Styles muttered, pushing it away.

Sitting down next to Styles, Matthews curled an arm around his shoulders to keep him from moving away and pushed the cup just under his nose. "Come on, lad, give it a try."

"No." Styles turned his head away, but Matthews followed with the cup, just as determined and stubborn as the teenager. "All right, all right." Styles drank the concoction, grimacing at the taste. "Ugh, it tastes as bad as it smells."

Matthews chuckled wryly, removing his arm from around Styles' shoulders. "Your head don't hurt anymore, though. Right?"

Styles sat quietly for several moments, just staring at nothing. Finally, he cautiously shook his head. "No, it don't." He looked at Matthews. "Thank you."

"Not at all." He waved off the thanks, getting to his feet. "We need to be back on the ship soon. You might want to wash up at least."

Styles nodded and slowly got to his feet, bracing himself against the wall for a moment before ambling over to the water basin to do his morning ablutions. Matthews watched him for a few moments before leaving to return the used cup to the innkeeper.

~*~*~*~

After that, Styles made more of an effort to adjust to Navy life. Matthews didn't much care what had prompted Styles to accept his new lifestyle, he was just glad that he had. Now he could relax his vigilance over the lad. In the end, they became friends, which disconcerted Matthews at first. He'd never truly intended to befriend the younger man, but Styles was in the same gun crew and Styles never forgot Matthews' kindness to him when he was still getting his sea legs. He didn't cling to Matthews, but he seemed content with his company over the other sailors'.

For his part, Matthews was surprised that he actually started to enjoy Styles' company. When he actually put effort into learning how to be a good sailor, he learned quickly. Not long after Styles resigned himself to being a sailor, he started to grow, and quickly. It wasn't long before he was taller than Matthews, and broader. When they went on shore leaves, Styles attracted as much female attention as Matthews. He certainly enjoyed it, too. More than once, Matthews woke up when Styles, reeking of sex and alcohol, stumbled into whatever room they'd rented for however long their leave was for, splashed some water on his face, crawled under the covers, and dropped off to sleep immediately. Within minutes, he would curl up against Matthews. How much Styles reeked was an indicator of how well the evening had gone for him: the stronger the smell, the better the evening. Of course, the worse Styles smelled, the longer it took for Matthews to get back to sleep.

He learned to put up with it, though. Despite the fact that one of them would die before the other, leaving the other to grieve, Matthews realized that he would rather face the prospect of grieving for Styles, than to live without his friendship.

  
**End**  



	2. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a talk with Styles, Matthews learns something new about both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when they actually get together. If you don't care for the pairing, stop reading now.

**Bonding**

Ben Matthews had lost count of the number of times he'd woken up to the sound of Matthew Styles retching into a chamber pot during the five years they had served together on various ships. Though the younger man had developed a head for alcohol during that time, it had led him to drink stronger alcohol and in larger quantities. Consequently, the end result was still the same. While Styles' broad shoulders convulsed with dry heaves this particular morning, Matthews dressed and went downstairs for the landlord's remedy for overindulgence. By the time he'd returned, Styles was sitting listlessly on the floor, his eyes closed against the morning glare. Matthews sat down beside him and, picking up one large hand, placed the cup into it. "Here, lad. Drink this."

"Another bloody remedy?" Styles asked, opening his eyes just enough to glare at Matthews. It was ruined somewhat by the abject misery he felt and the fact that Matthews was hardly intimidated by it. He never had been. He'd known the younger man since he was still a scrawny boy newly pressed into service.

Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow and indicated the pewter cup. "Drink it, lad, unless you _want_ to report for duty with a sore head."

"You like pressing these on me too much," Styles muttered petulantly, lifting the cup to his lips and drinking its contents anyway. He looked surprised. "That one wasn't too bad."

Matthews chuckled, taking the cup from Styles. "Sometimes they aren't, lad."

"Why do you still call me that?" Styles asked, his voice just a touch plaintive. "I'm nineteen, you know."

Matthews nodded, turning the empty cup around and around in his hands. "Yes, you are, but you still act like a lad sometimes."

"I think I'll _always_ be a lad to you," Styles muttered and, bracing himself with a hand against the wall, carefully climbed to his feet.

As Styles began his morning ablutions, Matthews got to his own feet and left to return the cup to its owner. By the time he'd returned, Styles was wearing a clean shirt and just pulling on his shoes. "Feel better now?"

"A bit, yeah," Styles answered, scrubbing at his face with his hands, sitting down on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

Matthews nodded and sat down beside his young friend. "I wanted to talk to you about something, Styles."

"Talk to me about what, Matthews?" Styles asked, glancing at the older man curiously.

He took a deep breath, debating how best to begin. "I know that men have needs that only women can fill, especially a young man such as yourself, but it's grown a bit...annoying to wake up when you come in late at night. Especially when you smell particularly bad."

"Are you trying to tell me that I should stop?" Styles asked, his forehead creasing in a frown.

Matthews shook his head. "No, but maybe you should consider limiting your...activities a little."

"Why haven't you said anything before?" Styles demanded, anger beginning to appear in his eyes.

The older man grabbed the broad shoulder nearest him and shook it slightly. "I didn't want to hurt your feelings, lad. Besides, you really didn't start smelling bad when you came in until the last few leaves we've been given."

"Oh." Styles glanced down at his large hands, which he'd folded together in his lap. "Thanks for saying something. I'll think about what you said, all right?"

"All right, lad." Matthews patted Styles' shoulder before standing up. "We'll be late if we don't hurry now."

Without a word, they gathered up the dunnage they'd brought with them and made their way down to the dock, each deep in thought about something.

~*~*~*~

It was almost six months before they were given leave again. During those six months, Styles was rather quiet and seemed to be deep in thought about something. Matthews didn't really care _what_ his friend was thinking about, just so long as it kept him out of trouble. Whenever the lad got in trouble, it was usually Matthews who cleaned up after him. What was disconcerting about the whole thing was the fact that the younger man was actually _thinking_. He didn't like to speak ill of his friend, but Styles was not exactly the sort of person who _thought_ about things. He tended to _do_ something, and _then_ think, usually when he was recovering from whatever trouble his _doing_ had landed him in. At any rate, Matthews figured Styles would tell him if and when he felt like sharing whatever conclusions he'd come to. Which he did, the next time they were given shore leave together.

They found a room at a reasonable rate not too far from the docks and washed up before ordering supper in the common room. Matthews had never been a heavy drinker and nursed a full tankard of ale as he gladly consumed the good food they'd been provided with. Styles worked his way through three tankards of ale and ate as enthusiastically as he always did. Matthews sometimes wondered if Styles was still hungry after they'd eaten their allotted amount of food. He never complained about being hungry, though, so Matthews wasn't about to ask.

He was surprised when Styles followed him back up to their room after they finished eating. Normally, he stayed in the common room, drinking, before going out to find a willing woman or two. When they reached the room, Matthews turned to the younger man. "When I suggested you limit your activities, Styles, I didn't mean stop altogether."

"I know, Matthews," Styles answered with a nod, taking off his coat and hanging it over the back of the chair. "It's just that I've been thinking a lot since our last shore leave together."

"I hope it didn't hurt _too_ badly," Matthews commented with a wry grin.

Styles didn't object to the comment, sitting down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes and stockings. "No, it didn't hurt at all, really."

"So, what was it that you thought about, lad?" Matthews asked, preoccupied as he loosened his queue and finger-combed the worst of the tangles out of his curls.

When he didn't receive a response right away, he turned to look at Styles, only to find him standing nearby, an intensity in his eyes that he'd never seen before. After a long moment, Styles finally answered: "I thought about this."

Matthews was too surprised to react when the younger man closed the distance between them and kissed him. It took only a few seconds for him to pull away, staring at the younger man with wide eyes. "Are you _sure_ you actually _thought_ , lad? We could hang for something like this!"

"I listen every time the captain reads the Articles, Matthews," Styles replied, sitting down on the bed with a heavy sigh. He glanced bleakly up at the older man. "Every time he reads Article Twenty-nine, I can feel the noose around my neck."

"I don't understand." Matthews frowned, folding his arms across his chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture. That article was the one that dammed unnatural acts of buggery.

Styles rolled his eyes. "You don't get it at all, do you?"

"I don't because you're not making sense." Matthews raised his eyebrows. "So, why do you feel that way when you hear it?"

Inexplicably, Styles' pockmarked cheeks reddened and he dropped his eyes to study the worn blanket beneath him. "All those times with the doxies and in brothels, it wasn't them I wanted."

"It rarely is," Matthews pointed out as calmly as he could, considering he already suspected what his young friend would tell him.

The young man rolled his eyes again. "I wasn't thinking of some sweetheart I have back in England."

"I didn't realize you thought at all," Matthews commented caustically. "You're just full of surprises tonight, aren't you?"

Styles shot to his feet, towering over Matthews, his eyes blazing, though he wasn't sure if it was from anger or something else. "Dammit, Matthews, I was thinking o' _you_! I knew I couldn't have you, though, so I settled for something different."

He stared at his friend for several long moments; utterly broadsided by the admission, despite the fact that he'd suspected the truth from the moment Styles had kissed him. Finally, he managed to find his voice. "I'm going to need to think about this, lad."

"I understand," Styles replied, hope sparking in his eyes. "I suppose it would be bit o' a shock for anyone."

Matthews smiled wryly. "More than a bit, to be honest."

"Right, o' course." Styles' return smile was a little tentative, but still hopeful. "Take all the time you need to think, Matty."

He shuddered at the nickname. Styles had started using it years ago to annoy him and still used it occasionally, just to be cheeky. A low chuckle was the lad's only response and Matthews shuddered again. He _definitely_ needed to do some thinking of his own.

~*~*~*~

They fell asleep as far apart in the small bed as they could manage, but Matthews was disconcerted to find himself comfortably ensconced in Styles' arms when he woke up. The only saving grace was the fact that the lad was still asleep. He supposed it was due to the fact that Styles hadn't drunk much the night before, so his stomach wasn't rebelling for once. However, before he could extricate himself from the younger man's embrace, he woke up. Matthews watched, fascinated, as the fogginess of sleep cleared from his young friend's eyes and he realized what sort of position they'd ended up in. He smiled shyly and let go of Matthews so the older man could get up. Patting a broad shoulder reassuringly, he climbed from the bed and splashed some of the cold water in the washbasin onto his face to help wake himself up, uncomfortably aware of the fact that Styles was pulling on a fresh pair of trousers behind him. When Matthews finished and moved away, Styles took his place at the washbasin.

Before they left the room to return to the ship, Matthews touched Styles' arm. "About what you said last night, Styles..."

"Think on it, Ben, that's all I ask," Styles answered quietly, his voice surprisingly quiet and gentle, not at all rough and blunt like it usually was.

That, combined with the fact that Styles had called Matthews by his Christian name for the first time, helped put Matthews at ease around his friend and he was able to act almost normally as they returned to the ship and resumed their duties. Inwardly, however, his thoughts and emotions were in turmoil. He knew men had such relations, but knowing about it and being brought face to face with such a fact were two different things. He would be doing a _lot_ of thinking in the months and weeks to come.

~*~*~*~

This time, it was Matthews who did a lot of thinking as the ship sailed across the wide ocean. He'd never really examined his feelings for the younger man before now and it was eye-opening, to say the least. He had lost his parents when he was a lad, and then the two men who'd taken him under their wings when he first joined the Royal Navy died themselves. After that, he'd decided there was no point in getting attached to people. They all died eventually.

Then Styles had been pressed and something about the lad had stirred a protective instinct in him. Quite without his realizing it at first, he'd befriended the lad. By the time he _did_ realize it, he couldn't see how ending the friendship would do Styles more good than harm. Consequently, he'd let the friendship grow and develop and now he couldn't imagine serving on a ship _without_ Styles. He was more attached to the lad than he'd realized, despite his quick temper and rough manners. There was a good heart underneath the gruff exterior. He'd seen it peek out on a few occasions. In the end, he realized that his feelings for the young man were just as strong as the young man's for him.

Not only did he try to determine _what_ his feelings for Styles were, he also watched Styles and observed how he interacted with the other ratings and with himself. The few differences that existed were small, but significant. Even a seasoned seaman like himself lost his footing on occasion, but Styles was always the first to reach out and steady him until he managed to get his feet under him properly. Even then, the big hand would always linger just a little more than was strictly necessary. They weren't attached at the hip, but the lad usually managed to be nearby when they were on watch. If he _couldn't_ manage it, he always sought out Matthews after their watch was over.

Having noticed these and other signs, Matthews wondered why he hadn't realized any of this before. In the end, he could only assume that he'd either simply not noticed them, or he _had_ and ignored what they meant. What it all boiled down to, however, was whether he should accept his feelings for Styles for what they were and act on them, risking death in the process, or whether he should deny the feelings and insist that the two of them remain friends.

~*~*~*~

Before he could make up his mind, their ship pursued a French one and took her by boarding. In the process, a Frenchman managed to run his sword clear through Matthews' left thigh. Styles saw this and cut him down before he could withdraw his sword. When the young man tried to pull the sword out himself, Matthews stopped him. "Take me to the surgeon and let him do his job, Lad."

"Right, Matty." Styles nodded and abandoned the fighting to help Matthews to the surgeon, Mr. Hanson. Matthews rolled his eyes only a little at the nickname.

Mr. Hanson raised an eyebrow the moment he saw the sword in Matthews' leg. "Whose idea was it to leave the sword there?"

"Mine, Sir," Matthews volunteered immediately, hoping to placate the surgeon. "I'd rather a professional like yourself pull it out."

Mr. Hanson nodded. "Right, thank you for your forethought, Matthews." He turned to the boy waiting nearby, green eyes wide as they stared at the sword skewering Matthews' leg. "Mr. Carlson, bandages, needle, thread, some laudanum--"

"No, laudanum, please, Sir." Matthews didn't drink much because he disliked not being in full command of himself and would end up with gaps in his memory as a result. The tattoos on his hip had appeared after a night of drunken revelry. Struggling with the pounding in his head, the sour taste in his mouth, and the twisting in his stomach, Matthews never did figure out how the words 'Royal Navy' had made their way onto his hip. For the same reason, Matthews disliked being dosed with laudanum.

The surgeon studied Matthews for a few moments before nodding. "Very well, just the bandages, needle, thread, and a stick for Matthews to bite."

"Aye, Sir," Carlson nodded and left to get the requested materials.

The touch of a broad hand on Matthews' shoulder reminded him of Styles' presence. He glanced up and met the lad's hazel eyes. Though he said nothing, Matthews knew what he was asking: _Do you want me to stay?_ Matthews nodded slightly. Styles nodded back before glancing at the surgeon. "Can I help in any way, Mr. Hanson?"

"You can hold Matthews down if he starts to struggle, Styles," Mr. Hanson replied as he busied himself with cutting off the leg of Matthews' trousers. "Otherwise, you can leave."

Styles nodded. "Aye, Sir." He glanced down at Matthews and nodded again. Matthews nodded back and began to prepare himself for the pain that the surgery would elicit.

~*~*~*~

The sword was removed with a minimum of fuss, the two wounds stitched shut, and the leg itself bandaged quickly and efficiently. Through it all, Matthews lay still, biting the stick and squeezing the hand Styles offered whenever the pain grew too much. By the time they were finished, the French ship had been dispatched for England with a prize crew in command and the French sailors prisoners in the brig. Mr. Hanson insisted that Matthews stay off his leg and remain in the infirmary, giving it a chance to heal. He also insisted that Matthews take a small measure of laudanum to dull the pain. It was Styles who convinced his friend to follow the surgeon's directions. "It'll dull the pain, Matty, so you'll be able to rest better."

Punching Styles' arm lightly for using that nickname, Matthews conceded the point and took the laudanum. The next several months proved to be a trial for him. It was weeks before he could put any weight at all on his injured leg. He was forced to use a crutch if he wanted to go anywhere on the ship after that. The looks he received from his fellow ratings and the officers were often mixtures of pity and sympathy, neither of which he wanted. Consequently, he spent most of his time in the infirmary doing nothing in particular. He wouldn't have minded so much if he'd had something to do, but there was nothing he _could_ do.

The ship came into a port while Matthews was still relying on a crutch and he refused to be lowered into the jolly boat like a landlubber. Not even Styles, who'd shown remarkable patience as Matthews slowly recovered, could convince him to go ashore. He was left aboard the ship as a consequence. There'd been times before when he and Styles had taken shore leave separately, but he felt the younger man's absence more keenly this time. He stared up at the planks above him, his grey eyes automatically following the familiar pattern of the grain and counting the knots in the wood once more.

He was startled from his occupation when Styles appeared in the doorway of the infirmary. "I thought your leave was for the night, Lad?"

"It was, but I thought you could use some company." Styles found a chair and pulled it up by the cot. He pulled a book out from under his jacket and presented it to his friend. "I also found this at a stall. I can't read, so I don't know what it is or what it's about, but I thought you might want it, since _you_ know how to read and all."

Matthews accepted the book and studied the words stamped on the spine. " _Canterbury Tales_."

"Have you read it before?" Styles asked, leaning forward.

Matthews nodded, opening the book to the frontispiece. "When I was a wee lad. Dad had a copy he prized highly. Mum had to sell it so she could pay for our passage to England."

"It was _that_ valuable?" Styles tilted his head curiously.

Matthews nodded again, paging through the book. "Yes, I'm surprised you were able to afford this copy."

"It's not exactly in good condition," Styles pointed out, idly rubbing a worn spot on the cover.

Matthews smacked Styles' hand lightly. "There's no need for you to make it worse."

"Sorry." Styles smiled sheepishly.

Matthews smiled reassuringly in return. "It's all right, Lad." He studied the younger man for several moments before clearing his throat. "Would you like me to read a bit to you?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble?" Styles glanced at Matthews out of the corner of his eye.

Matthews shook his head as he flipped to the front of the book. "No, not at all." Clearing his throat, he began to read, "When that Aprilis..."

~*~*~*~

Matthews had never made a point of his literacy, but he was grateful for it now. With a book to read, the hours in the infirmary didn't seem so endless. When Styles would come by to visit, they would chat for a few moments before the book appeared and Matthews read aloud to the young man. It was a chance for them to spend some time together while Matthews' leg continued to heal. The weeks until his leg finally healed completely passed quickly and it was with great relief that he was able to resume his duties. It had been nice to not need to get up at all hours of the day or night, or to stand watch in the middle of a rainstorm, but he'd grown restless and fretful, wanting to do his job.

When Matthews was finally able to resume his duties, very little fuss was made. He simply took his place with the rest of his division and immediately set to work as if he hadn't been in the infirmary for the last several months. The only difference was the fact that Styles tended to hover near wherever his friend was working, watching. The midshipman in charge of their division noticed this and started assigning Styles duties that would take him away from Matthews so he would actually _do_ them and not worry over his friend.

By the time they made port again, Matthews had made his decision regarding his relationship with Styles. As usual, they took a room together. Both were quiet as they cleaned up and ate their supper downstairs. They were quiet because Matthews had told his friend that he'd made up his mind and would inform him of the decision after supper, when they'd gained the privacy of their room once more. Matthews was quiet because he was still trying to figure out what how he'd tell the young man what his decision is. He could only assume that Styles' silence was due to the fact that he wasn't sure what Matthews would say.

Once they'd reached their room, Matthews turned to Styles and spoke bluntly, seeing no point in drawing it out. "I'll risk hanging for you, lad."

He stared at Matthews for several moments as he figured out his meaning. Finally, it sunk in and, grinning like a loon, he picked up Matthews and squeezed him in a hug so tight that Matthews feared for his ribs. Instantly contrite, Styles gingerly set Matthews back on his feet. "Oh, I'm sorry, Ben!"

Rather than attempt to reassure the younger man with words, Matthews drew the rough head down to his for a soft kiss, which was returned most happily and eagerly. _This is going to be an interesting night, certain sure..._

**End**


	3. Bonded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows Matthews and Styles as they serve with Hornblower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts just before _Even Chance [The Duel]_ and ends right after _The Duchess and the Devil_.

**Bonded**

If it wouldn't result in his death, Ben Matthews would be more than happy to admit that waking up ensconced in Matthew Styles' arms was a happy improvement over waking to the sound of the younger man retching into the room's chamber pot. They had been lovers for three years now and it had been a bit of a surprise to realize how little their life had changed. They had always been close, so no one suspected anything when the two of them rented a room together. If anyone took notice, said observer would simply assume that Matthews and Styles were trying to save a bit of money for the brothels or doxies.

In reality, they were content with each other's company, though Matthews took advantage of such services when he was deprived of his lover's company and Styles did the same. If nothing else, such behaviour prevented anyone from suspecting anything between the two men, which was their preference. A glance out the window prompted Matthews to leave the bed, albeit reluctantly. A sleepy groan reached his ears as he began to dress. "It's too bloody early, Ben."

"Not at all, Matty," Matthews replied, using the nickname for Styles with relish. It was one his lover used sometimes to annoy him and he always enjoyed a chance to get some of his own back. "We'll be late returning to the ship if you don't get your lazy arse out of bed soon. The rain hasn't let up."

"That's lovely, that is," Styles muttered, but rolled out of bed anyway, stretching a little before he started to get dressed as well, wincing a little as he pulled on his trousers.

Matthews noticed the wince, but made no comment as he combed his fingers through his curls, untangling them as best he could before he tied them back. "Hurry up."

"You may have more years in the service, but that don't give you the right to order me around here," the younger man growled, running his fingers through his hair after he pulled his shirt on.

He rolled his eyes, picking up the little dunnage he had brought ashore with him, double-checking that the little book he had bought yesterday was still in there. "We might not get any leave next time if we're late returning this time, you know that. Not to mention being flogged."

"Aye, I do." Styles sighed, shrugged into his coat, and picked up his own dunnage, following Matthews from the room. Even after ten years of service, the younger man still had a tendency to earn himself a flogging from time to time. "Do you think Mr Simpson passed his examination this time?"

Matthews shrugged slightly, buttoning his coat and clapping his hat on his head before he stepped out into the grey, rainy morning. "I couldn't say, though it won't change much for us if he did. He'd still be our commanding officer."

"He'd be in a good mood for a few days, anyway," Styles pointed out, following the older man out into the rain.

He nodded as they hurried down the street towards the docks. "Aye, he would." What he didn't voice was the fact that Mr Simpson would be in a foul mood for weeks if he did _not_ pass his examination, again. _That would be trouble for his messmates, certainly._

They remained silent as they continued towards the docks. Life aboard the Justinian was dull, monotonous, and, at this time of year, damp and grey. Their only reprieves at the moment came in the form of shore leave. A better respite would be war of some kind, but none of the other nations were willing to challenge Britain's naval supremacy. If France were not so busy chopping off the heads of their nobility, she might throw down the gauntlet, but there was no chance of action at the moment and it was making many of the men restless.

~*~*~*~

"He insisted that Dr Heppelwhite look to Williams, said he'd bleed to death if he wasn't seen to," Styles informed the division as they prepared Davy Williams' body for burial at sea. Less than a week aboard the _Indefatigable_ after transferring on Captain Keene's recommendation and they had already seen action. Matthews worked quietly alongside the others, preparing the unfortunate men for burial at sea, having already seen for himself that their new commanding officer, a Mr Horatio Hornblower, was a vast improvement over their last.

This observation was reinforced as Matthews served on the _Marie Gallant_ under Mr Hornblower with Styles, Finch, and Oldroyd. The young midshipman managed to keep everyone alive, even after the ship went down, long enough for the _Indy_ to find them and take them aboard. The four of them wasted no time telling their shipmates how Mr Hornblower tricked the Frog captain into steering the boat into the _Indy_ 's path.

Then they fished Mr Simpson out of the ocean and Matthews watched as Mr Kennedy, such a bright, shining lad full of promise, seemed to shrink in on himself, as if a lamp had been blown out. That was when Matthews knew for certain the sort of discipline Mr Simpson had meted out on his messmates, or at least Mr Kennedy. The seaman had seen enough of such behaviour in his eighteen years of service to spot the signs. He was sorry that it was Mr Kennedy who had suffered such attentions. Like Mr Hornblower, he showed signs of becoming a good officer, if he were only given a chance.

The cutting-out of the _Papillon_ was just such a chance, but Mr Kennedy's fit almost ruined everything. Matthews had done what he could to stifle the midshipman's cries, but the lad struggled too much. In the end, Mr Hornblower was forced to knock out the other midshipman with the tiller to quiet him. Despite the darkness, Matthews took note of the expression on the young officer's face and knew it had hurt him as much as it had his fellow officer, perhaps more.

Despite Mr Kennedy's fit, the cutting-out was a success. Matthews and Styles did their part, working swiftly to loose the main topsail with the ease of many years' experience. "I thought Mr Kennedy was done having fits."

"Never you mind about that now, Styles," Matthews retorted shortly, working his way backward along the yardarm. He was fairly sure he knew the cause of Mr Kennedy's problem, but he wasn't about to say anything. "Focus on the task at hand."

"Aye, aye." Styles rolled his eyes, but fell silent and focused on untying the knots. Some of them were slipshod and came loose with barely a touch of their fingers, proving that the French couldn't sail properly to save their lives.

Matthews did the same, aware that he was now perched above the sea. One wrong move on his part could send him into the water. That was part of the reason he had insisted on moving out instead of in. If one of them were to fall from the yardarm and into the water, it should be the one who knew how to swim. Dr Harman and Mr MacDougal had seen to that during his early years in the British Navy.

They were almost finished when they heard Finch cry out from the other side, "Sir!"

Wondering what had caused the man to shout, Matthews and Styles finished their work and moved around the mast to the other side, just as Oldroyd came scrambling back, with no sign of Mr Hornblower or Finch in sight. They did not even need to ask, the blond seaman started babbling the story to them the moment he saw them. "We was almost finished, me, Finchy, and Mr Hornblower, when there was a shot from the deck, see. Mr 'ornblower, 'e clapped 'is 'and to his forehead and fell off, right into the water. Finchy, 'e tried to grab 'im, but was too late. So 'e jumped after Mr 'ornblower."

"Can he swim?" Matthews demanded, even as the three of them started scrambling down the rigging to join in the fighting. "Can Finch swim?"

"I dunno. We'll find out, won't we?" Styles replied, his words offhand, but the tone of his voice was worried.

"We need to report this to Mr Eccleston." He sighed and made his way to the quarterdeck, where the lieutenant had stationed himself with Mr Chadd and Mr Bowles. As the most senior of the three seamen, it was up to him to make the report.

"Matthews, where is Mr Hornblower?" Mr Eccleston asked when the seaman presented himself to make the report.

"Oldroyd said he was shot from the deck and fell, into the water, Sir," he reported, tugging his forelock respectfully and apologetically. "Finch jumped in after him, but no one knows if he can swim."

Eccleston accepted the explanation with a sigh. "Very well. Thank you for telling me. We can't take time to read services over anyone right now. Help the other men clear the bodies from the deck so we can be ready for action."

"Aye, aye, Sir." Matthews tugged his forelock again and left the quarterdeck as Mr Simpson arrived to make his own report to the lieutenant. Matthews paused at the foot of the ladder to hear Mr Simpson's report.

"The jollyboat is lost, Sir." Mr Simpson informed the lieutenant. "She must have gone adrift while we came about. I regret to inform you that Mr Kennedy was still in her at the time."

"By God, two officers dead or missing," Mr Eccleston murmured, sounding truly upset by the news.

Matthews didn't stay to hear anymore. What he had heard was enough. He didn't trust Mr Simpson's word, but he had no way of proving anything aside from a gut feeling. No one would take a seaman's word over an officer's anyway.

~*~*~*~

Life continued on. Matthews continued to serve aboard the _Indy_ with Styles. They had earned Mr Hornblower's trust, so they often found themselves selected for missions led by the lad. That was why they ended up in a Spanish prison with their shipmates. In order to avoid running aground in the fog, they had blundered into the middle of a Spanish fleet and been captured. It soon became common knowledge that Mr Kennedy was being held there, too. None of the ratings saw any sign of the missing midshipman until Mr Hornblower carried him bodily to the prison's small infirmary, clearly ill.

"What do you think's wrong with him?" Styles asked Matthews in a low voice once Mr Hornblower had hurried past their cell with his unconscious friend.

Matthews shook his head, sighing softly. "I've never been captured myself, but he's been missing for several years now, and the jolly boat was in French territory when it went adrift to begin with."

"According to Simpson," Styles snorted, expressing his opinion without further words.

Matthews nodded to acknowledge that Simpson might have had more to do with the jolly boat coming loose than he had let on. "Still, Mr Kennedy's probably been a prisoner of war all this time, or at least most of it."

"Does that mean the Spanish picked him up?" Styles asked, frowning in thought.

He shook his head, fondly exasperated. "Think, man. The Spanish were our allies at the time. They'd have simply transported him to an English port if they'd found him."

"Why is he here now, then?" the younger man questioned, looking puzzled.

The older man shrugged slightly. "Maybe the French didn't want to keep an eye on him anymore. We may never know."

"S'ppose all we can do is hope that he'll get better," Styles murmured thoughtfully, glancing in the direction that their commanding officer had gone.

"Aye." He patted Styles' broad shoulder before sitting down on the bunk they'd been sharing since their arrival. Though they couldn't do more than sleep in it, at least they could be together.

~*~*~*~

Though he hadn't said as much to Styles, Matthews suspected that Mr Kennedy had been trying to escape from prison since he'd been captured. It was very likely that something about the consequences of his last attempt must have broken the shining spirit that he'd admired. All that had been left behind was a shell of the man who'd served with Mr Hornblower, first on the _Justinian_ , and then on the _Indy_. He hoped that Mr Kennedy would mend, though. He deserved better than a disgraceful end in a Spanish jail.

Even as he watched Mr Kennedy recover, Matthews kept an eye on Mr Hunter, the midshipman Captain Pellew had sent to accompany Mr Hornblower on the voyage back to England. He'd been in the service long enough to know a man like that was more dangerous to his allies than to his enemies. He was too eager to fight, to lash out at their captors. Granted, it was frustrating to simply sit around and do nothing to escape, but it was more foolish to rush ahead without knowing what they were charging into.

Sure enough, when Hunter put his plan into action, all it accomplished was to take away what little freedom the men were allowed and put Mr Hornblower in the oubliette. 

"This is all you, Oldroyd," Styles growled as the three of them watched one of the guards torment Mr Hornblower, kicking sand into the underground cell. "You bloody idiot. Captain told you not to go for it. "

"Oh, and how was I to know, eh?" Oldroyd snapped back, though Matthews could see the guilt and regret in the blond man's eyes.

Matthews couldn't help losing his temper, frustrated that they were stuck in their cell now. "Course you bloody knew. Following a sawdust-for-brains bastard like Hunter, what do you expect?" He couldn't resist a chance to point out how things would have been different if they'd been following Mr Hornblower instead of Hunter, who should have been the one in the oubliette, if the acting lieutenant hadn't insisted on taking the blame for the failed escape attempt. "Mr Hornblower would've got us out of here. He would! He'd have walked us down to the harbour, nice and easy. Found a nice little boat. Sailed us all the way back home, no problem. Now look where you've got him."

Styles expressed his frustration with their situation by smacking the back of Oldroyd's head. Matthews couldn't blame him. He had been tempted to do the same himself. Sometimes he wondered how he'd managed to survive without getting himself killed before now.

At least by then, Mr Kennedy had recovered from whatever illness had plagued him, but he was still much quieter and more subdued than Matthews remembered him being before the cutting-out. He supposed it was due to being a prisoner of war all this time. He could only hope that the shining spirit would emerge in time.

~*~*~*~

Matthews knew Mr Hornblower had fully recovered from his stay in the oubliette when he insisted that he and his men go out into a raging ocean to save a few Spanish sailors from the ship that had run aground on the rocks. Though it was practically suicide, they went with the acting lieutenant, following him and trusting him to see them safely through the crisis. When it became clear that they would simply have to huddle down in the boat and ride out the night, Matthews and Styles took advantage of the situation to huddle together in the bow of the boat, intending to claim that they were sharing body heat should anyone ask about it.

In reality, they were savouring the chance to actually cuddle, nestling as close together as they could. Though they shared a bunk in the jail cell, they couldn't risk doing more than sleep with their shipmates in the cell, too. Matthews hadn't realized how much he'd missed curling up with Styles, his head comfortably tucked under the taller man's chin until he had the chance to do so again. It was too wet for them to risk unbuttoning their jackets, but they got around that by tucking their hands under the hems of each other's coats, pressing closer together to keep the relatively dry material of their shirts as dry as they could. It wasn't much, but it was something.

The next morning, the _Indy_ found them drifting in the calmed waters and scooped them up. They were all bundled below to change into warm, dry clothes and huddled near the warm galley, swathed in blankets and gratefully sipping the double rum ration Captain Pellew had ordered for them. Styles stood closest to the galley and Matthews thought his nose looked awfully red, but it could simply have been due to prolonged exposure to the cold rain. At any rate, when he brought up the subject, Styles waved off his concern, taking a large sip of his rum.

They had only a few days aboard the _Indy_ because Mr Hornblower had given not only _his_ parole to the Commandant, but also that of his men. Consequently, the newly made lieutenant felt it necessary to return to El Ferrol. He had given his word and he would not break it. To do so would be to go against his honour and his ethics. Captain Pellew had been considerate enough to offer the men a chance to stay aboard the _Indy_ without anyone thinking the less of them. Mr Kennedy had spoken for all of them when he said Mr Hornblower's word was good enough for him. With some reluctance, they returned to the boat and rowed back to shore. It had been wonderful to be aboard a ship again, feeling the deck roll beneath their feet and scramble up the rigging.

One benefit of their voluntary return was that they were less closely guarded. What little freedom they had enjoyed before Hunter's ill-considered plan was put into action was returned to them. Unfortunately, Styles couldn't enjoy the freedom right away because he'd caught a cold as a result of spending a night out in the cold and rain. Once the Commandant had been informed of this, he'd ordered Styles confined to the infirmary. Matthews had requested permission to look after his shipmate, citing his experience as a loblolly boy. With the Commandant's permission, Mr Hornblower agreed.

"You should have gone to see the surgeon while we were aboard the _Indy_ ," Matthews scolded Styles that first night, gently wiping away the sweat that had gathered on the taller man's brow.

Styles rolled his eyes at that, though Matthews could see that the taller man was pleased with the fussing, turning his head into the touch of the cloth. "Didn't want to make a fuss. Was just cold from the rain."

"At least you had the sense to get warm as soon as possible." He dampened the cloth in the cool water that had been provided and gently patted Styles' face with it, hoping it would bring his fever down a little. "More than Oldroyd would've done."

His lover made a face at that, shivering a little, and then grimacing as it pained him. "Please don't mention that bloody idiot again."

"It was compliment, you big oaf," Matthews retorted fondly, gently brushing his fingers along Styles' pockmarked face. Not handsome in the typical sense, there was something about the bigger man that he found very appealing. He was glad for what they had, though, and had come to rely on it over the years. It was his hope that he would be able to rely on it in the years to come.

It was rather nice to sit in the small room and talk with Styles or read to him from the two books he'd managed to bring back with him from his dunnage: _Canterbury Tales_ and _Hamlet_. Of course, they took advantage of the privacy, once Styles was feeling better, for other activities that had been denied them for some time now. They were careful, however, to do so only at night, when there was a much smaller chance of anyone coming to see Styles and see how he was doing. By the time the younger man had been given a clean bill of health and returned to his cell with Matthews, both were well satisfied. The frustration that had begun to simmer in both of them, particularly Styles, was gone.

~*~*~*~

In a roundabout sort of way, Mr Hornblower's insistence on rescuing the Spaniards from drowning at sea served to rescue the British crew from rotting in a Spanish jail. They arrived back in England a few days before the _Indy_. Matthews and Styles took advantage of the few days of freedom to keep to themselves. They spent their days exploring the various shops and the nights ensconced in the single-bed room they had rented not far from the docks. Thankfully, their fellow seamen were content to wander off to one of the several brothels near the docks after dinner most evenings.

With all that idle time, Styles had begun to grow restless, spending a good portion of his days out wandering the city alone. Matthews didn't worry about Styles getting hurt in a fight, because he was big and strong. He worried more that Styles would land himself in jail for some reason or another and wouldn't be able to report for duty when the _Indy_ arrived. Though they occasionally went on shore leave without each other, they had yet to serve on separate ships since they'd met all those years ago and Matthews didn't intend for it to happen now.

Thankfully, his fears were never realized. The _Indy_ arrived before Styles' restlessness grew out of hand. Much as Matthews had expected, Captain Pellew had been surprised when they'd arrived to report for duty. The dispatch containing news of their release probably hadn't even left Spain yet. Their postal system was notoriously slow. Still, the captain had taken them back with no more fuss than that and it was with great pleasure that they resumed their duties. It was hard work with few comforts, but it was the only life they'd ever known.

**End**


	4. On Frog Soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows Matthews and Styles during the failed attempt to retake France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during _The Wrong War [Frogs and Lobsters]_

**On Frog Soil**

"Oi! Watch it." Styles' annoyed order distracted Matthews from the line he was repairing. Styles and Oldroyd were mopping the deck, as they'd been ordered to, and the oldest of the three could only guess that the blond had done something to annoy Styles, which wasn't difficult. He'd tried to take the younger man under his wing, much as Matthews' had with Styles, but he didn't have the patience that his lover did, so he often became exasperated. Noticing the older man's gaze on him, Styles asked, "What do you reckon the orders will be then, eh? Stay here and take it easy?"

Matthews hid a smile. Styles had never been fond of hard labor, though he'd learned to do his fair share of the work once he'd been pressed into service. "Not unless the captain's gone soft."

"Naw. Pity, though. I could do with another month on fresh rations." _And the possibility of shore leave with you..._ Matthews mentally added, hiding another smile. Sometimes, it was far too easy to read his lover.

Oldroyd's voice interrupted their exchange, distracting them and annoying Styles again. "Maybe we'll be sent to the Indies, then, eh? How about that? Palm trees, sunshine."

"Tropical diseases," Styles added, glancing up at Matthews. With that one glance, he knew why his lover had mentioned it. Shortly after Styles had come to accept life in the Navy, they'd been sent to the Indies. One of the other men in their division had caught one of those tropical diseases and all they could do was watch as the disease ravaged him, burning him up with fever until all that was left of him was a mindless husk. He was the first shipmate Styles had seen to the bottom of the sea, but not the last.

In an effort to distract Styles from the memory that must be running through his mind now, Matthews offered a suggestion of his own, one that would appeal to Oldroyd. "Could be the Med again. Have another go at them dagos."

"Yeah, we could go back and give them another pasting, easy," the blond agreed easily, eager for a chance to make up for how their last visit to the Med had gone. Though Matthews had to admit that bringing back Mr Kennedy had made up for being captured by the Spanish. "Do it on our own, too. Leave the rest of the fleet in the Channel."

Matthews glanced at Styles and saw the request to cool Oldroyd's ardour in his eyes. Stifling a resigned sigh, he nodded and took Styles' mop. "Oi, Fanny Fearless, missed a bit."

"Where?" Oldroyd looked around, puzzled, not even noticing that Matthews was holding Styles' mop, nor that Styles was right next to the bucket of water they'd been using as they worked.

Continuing his part in distracting the younger crewman, Matthews pointed over Oldroyd's shoulder. "Behind you."

"Where?" Oldroyd repeated the question, peering over the gun behind him.

Just as he turned back to repeat his question a third time, Styles, who'd picked up the bucket when Oldroyd turned away, tossed the contents of the bucket right in Oldroyd's face. All the ratings in the vicinity laughed, Styles loudest of all. Matthews simply shook his head in fond exasperation at his lover's antics and relinquished his mop to him. "Try to be patient with him, Styles. At least he's eager to fight instead of reluctant. You know the penalty for it."

"Aye, but if he's too eager, he's just as likely to get killed," Styles grumbled, using the kerchief around his neck to mop his face. It was bloody warm and at least the water soaking Oldroyd would keep him cool.

Matthews could only agree with Styles' prediction. They'd seen more than one of their comrades lose his life because he was reckless in battle. Hopefully, Oldroyd had learned from Hunter's example in Spain, but only time would tell.

* * *

The average seaman may never find out their orders, but that didn't exempt him from helping to stock the ship for its cruise. That was exactly what Matthews, Styles, and Oldroyd were doing, with Mr Kennedy and Mr Hornblower supervising, when a regiment of French troops arrived at the docks. As usual, it was Styles who spoke what all of them were wondering: "Frogs? What the bloody hell are they doing here?"

Matthews nudged Styles into continuing their work, listening as their officers discussed the new arrivals. Apparently, the French were joining them and neither young man seemed to think much of the Frogs. At least Mr Hornblower tried to be diplomatic, but Matthews felt that Mr Kennedy was more accurate. The sound of a fife and drum distracted them the next moment and Oldroyd called out, "Look out for the lobsters!"

They watched as the red-coated regiment marched up to the docks and came to a precise halt, a far cry from the way the French troops had ambled along. An officer some ten or more years younger than Captain Pellew rode up to them, touching his hat as he addressed them, "Morning, gentlemen. Major Edrington, 95th foot. I've been told someone here can see to the embarkation of my men onto the _Indefatigable_."

"Lieutenant Hornblower. Acting Lieutenant Kennedy, sir." Mr Hornblower introduced himself, addressing the officer calmly and professionally. "I will see to it myself."

Matthews turned back and managed to get the others to continue their work as the officers talked. Mr Kennedy seemed to compliment and insult the major almost in the same moment, but he retorted with such quiet coolness that Matthews was forced to hide a smile, despite the subtle dig at himself and his fellow sailors. They may not be as crisply turned out as the soldiers, but they would fight just as fiercely in battle. He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of the French troops cheering for their commanding officer. Working next to him, Styles muttered, "Bloody Frogs."

He nudged his lover, scolding him without saying a word. Even though he continued to work as Mr Hornblower translated the speech the French officer gave his men, he listened to what was said and what wasn't said. From the translation, he gathered that they were transporting the French and English troops to France in an attempt to put the French king back on the throne.

When Oldroyd echoed the French troops' shout of, " _Vive le roi!_ " Matthews turned just in time to see him dodge a cuff from Styles. At least the young man had learned that much from their stay in Spain. Shaking his head, Matthews reminded his crewmates that they had work to do.

* * *

"All right, that's enough!" The command in Mr Hornblower's voice stopped Matthews, Styles, and Oldroyd from making further complaints to their commanding officer. They'd made their views known to Mr Hornblower and that was all they could do. Officers rarely listened to the ratings. "Now about your work."

"Aye, aye, sir." Matthews nodded and started across the deck with Styles and Oldroyd to return to their duties.

They hadn't gone very far when Mr Hornblower's voice stopped them. "Styles."

"Sir?" Styles tried to sound innocent, but Matthews knew better. Especially when he saw what the younger man was holding.

Mr Hornblower had obviously seen it, too. "Put the chicken back, Styles."

"But sir..." Styles tried to protest or explain himself, but Matthews knew he wouldn't be given a chance.

"Styles!" There was no arguing with that tone of Mr Hornblower's voice.

Styles obviously realized it, too, because he simply answered. "Yes, sir."

Matthews walked with his lover to where the chickens were kept, ostensibly to help make sure the chicken was returned. "That was rather stupid of you, Styles."

"Shut it, Matty," Styles growled, opening the coop and putting the chicken inside. "Why do we have to help the frogs, anyway?"

He sighed, rubbing his temples. They'd gone over this several times already, but Styles refused to let the subject rest. "Perhaps they hope helpin' the frog king will keep him from attackin' us in the future."

"Not bloody likely," Styles scoffed, latching the coop. "Nothin' good will come of this, I can tell you that."

Matthews rolled his eyes, patting Styles' shoulder. "You've done that already, Styles. Now let's get back to work."

"Aye, Matty." They left to return to their duties, their hands just barely brushing against each other as they walked.

* * *

Matthews, Styles, and Oldroyd gathered with their commanding officer prior to disembarking the _Indy_ for French soil. "We'll be taking two 12-pounders and enough powder to destroy a bridge."

"Uh, what size is the bridge, sir?" Matthews asked. If they knew the size of the bridge, then they could determine how much extra powder to take with them.

Mr Hornblower's next statement was so far from what Matthews was expecting that he was stopped short. "Well, I'd imagine it's a bit bigger than the river, Matthews."

"Sir?" He stared, puzzled.

The lieutenant shook his head. "Uh, never mind." After a moment's thought, he told them. "Um, take ten extra powder casks to be sure."

"Aye, aye, sir." Matthews nodded and set to work.

Styles, unfortunately, didn't, choosing instead to address Mr Hornblower. "Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Hornblower, sir. Why can't the French use their own cannon?"

"Styles," Matthews chided his lover in an undertone, wishing the younger man would stop and think before he asked questions.

Judging by the tone of Mr Hornblower's response, he wished the same. "It might have escaped your notice, Styles, but General Charette's troops don't have any cannon."

"Well, I don't mind lettin' 'em take ours, sir." Styles' voice was ironic and Matthews could only imagine what his expression was, since the taller man had his back to him at the moment.

Fortunately for Styles, it seemed that Mr Hornblower completely missed the irony. "Yesterday, you were prepared to hang a man for stealing a chicken, but today you're willing to give them our guns. Very generous. Decided the French are all right after all, have you, Styles?"

Styles at least had the sense to wait until after the lieutenant had continued on his way before answering. "No."

Exasperated, Matthews reached out and grabbed his lover's arm. "In case you didn't notice, Styles, we have work to do." He turned to the blond young man lounging nearby. "Oldroyd, go get the powder."

"Why me?" Oldroyd protested, puffing up indignantly. He'd been doing that a lot lately and it was starting to annoy Matthews.

While Styles would have reached over and cuffed the lad, Matthews simply gave him a stern look. "That's an order, Oldroyd. Now go."

"Aye, sir." Still glowering, he turned on his heel and headed down to where the powder was stored, away from water and fire alike.

Relatively alone with Styles now, Matthews turned his stern look on the larger man. He kept his voice low as they continued their work. "When will you start thinkin' before you say somethin', Styles? Mr Hornblower could have had you in irons for insubordination if he hadn't been distracted."

"He didn't, though," Styles pointed out with a smug smile, though Matthews saw a flicker of worry in his eyes.

Shaking his head, Matthews sighed. "That don't matter. Oldroyd at least has sense enough not to say anythin' that could get him clapped in irons."

"Why do you always compare me to him?" Styles demanded, anger glinting in his eyes now. He moved closer to Matthews, dropping his voice even lower. "If you prefer his company..."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the oldest of the three answered patiently, keeping his voice just as soft. "No, I don't, and you know it. I'm just warnin' you to watch what you say. I don't want to see you flogged again."

Glancing around to make sure no one could overhear him, Styles answered. "At least you could nurse me back to health."

"Not if it was your big mouth that got you into trouble," Matthews retorted firmly, turning away as Oldroyd arrived with the first of the powder casks they would be taking with them.

* * *

Since Styles and Oldroyd had been given the task of clearing out the dung cart so they could use it, Matthews had the privilege of watching as Mr Hornblower attempted to mount the horse that had been found for him. It was highly entertaining, but the rating couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the officer, so he stepped forward and took hold of the horse's bridle. "Go ahead, Sir. I've got him."

"Thank you, Matthews." Mr Hornblower managed a small smile as he finally swung his free leg up and over the horse's hindquarters and settled in the saddle. "I don't suppose you have any idea how to ride?"

Reluctantly, Matthews shook his head. He'd learned when he was young, but he hadn't been on a horse in years. "No, Sir. Sorry, Sir."

"Thank you anyway, Matthews." The lieutenant nodded and took up the horse's reins, the look on his face suggesting that he would figure it out on his own if he had to.

The rating released the horse's bridle just as Mr Kennedy stepped up next to him. "Help load the cart, Matthews. I'll help Mr Hornblower."

"Aye-aye, Sir." Matthews saluted and returned to the cart. As he helped his crewmates load the powder and other equipment into the cart, the seaman couldn't help glancing over at the two officers occasionally. Something about the way they spoke to each other and exchanged glances struck him as familiar, yet he couldn't place his finger on it. Shrugging, he dismissed it from his mind and continued his work.

By the time the cart was loaded and ready, Mr Hornblower had turned his horse and set off to join Major Edrington, who waited near his troops were formed up, all of them standing and waiting without fidgeting. Not too far from Major Edrington were the Frog troops, who fidgeted restlessly as they waited. A word was passed to Colonel Moncoutant, who was commanding the Frogs, and they set off for wherever they were going.

* * *

The men had almost finished setting up the two cannons to cover the bridge from the north when Mr Hornblower returned from the village, looking uneasy. He ignored his friend's questions about what had happened and asked how soon they could start setting the powder.

Matthews, Oldroyd, and Styles were picked to set the powder while the other ratings finished setting up the second cannon.

Styles, as the biggest and strongest of the three, was given the task of lowering the powder casks to Matthews and Oldroyd, who would put the barrels in place and secure them. "That's right...bit more, Styles."

As Matthews and Oldroyd caught the barrel and prepared to put it with the others, Mr Hornblower peered over the edge beside Styles. "That's three barrels placed, sir. This'll be the fourth. I reckon that'll be enough."

"I think we'll put two more barrels over the side here, just to be sure." The lieutenant patted the low wall to indicate what he meant.

"Begging your pardon, sir." Matthews had been thinking about the plan as they'd been placing the cannons and powder and couldn't hold back his question. "But, uh, if the enemy's expected from that side--" he pointed to the south "--and when we blow the bridge up we're going to be that side." This time, he pointed to the north. "How do we get back to the beach?"

"We don't." Mr Hornblower answered simply, his face utterly calm. Though Matthews had the sun in his eyes, so he couldn't be sure what the officer's expression was. "We hold this position at all costs."

"Surrounded by frogs and nowhere to go," Styles murmured, glancing down at Matthews with a smile, who couldn't help smiling back.

Mr Hornblower gave an exasperated sigh. "Styles."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Styles sounded truly apologetic that time, for which Matthews was grateful. As the rating with the most seniority, if Mr Hornblower had decided that Styles needed to be disciplined further, it would fall to Matthews to administer the punishment.

More to distract himself than anything else, Matthews said, "There's, uh, more than bloody frogs down here, sir."

Styles chuckled at least, but Mr Hornblower didn't sound amused when he told them to carry on. While Styles left to get the barrels to place on the bridge itself, Matthews and Oldroyd placed the one they were holding. "What do you suppose has gotten into 'im?"

"Got into who?" Matthews asked, deliberately pretending he didn't know who Oldroyd was talking about.

"Mr Hornblower, of course." Oldroyd's tone suggested that it was obvious who he was talking about. "He's even sterner than usual."

Matthews rolled his eyes, tapping the barrel into place. "Think about it, Oldroyd. We're on Frog soil, with nowhere to go if things turn bad. Wouldn't _you_ be in a bad mood?"

Without bothering to wait for a response, Matthews turned and waded to the bank, more than ready to climb out of the water. He'd much rather be swimming in the ocean than mucking about in a river. At least the ocean meant they could get away.

* * *

As darkness fell, with no sign of Mr Hornblower returning from his supper with the colonel, Matthews noticed Mr Kennedy standing by himself on the bridge, simply staring down at the water. Clearing his throat, he walked over and asked quietly, "Begging your pardon, sir. Is everything all right, sir?"

"Yes, fine." The acting lieutenant nodded, managing a small smile for the rating. "Fine, thank you, Matthews."

He saluted and returned to their camp, with one tent for the officers and another for the ratings. It would be odd, sleeping on the ground, but at least it was the middle of the summer, so the nights would be warm. Of course, it also meant that he and Styles couldn't use the excuse of a cold night to share body heat. At least they would still be near each other.

At the moment, they were gathered around a small fire, eating some rabbit one of the men had managed to snare. It was much better than rations aboard the ship and Matthews spared a moment from worrying about the two officers to be grateful for that.

* * *

Someone shaking his shoulder awakened him in the early hours of the morning. "Psst! Matty, wake up! Come on, Matty."

"Wha? Styles? What do you want?" He stared at his lover blearily, not appreciating having his sleep disturbed for no apparent reason.

Styles didn't say anything right away, simply gesturing for Matthews to get up and follow him. Wondering what was going on in that thick skull, he got up and carefully stepped around the others, outside the tent. It was the darkest part of the night, after the moon had set but before the sun rose. "This way, Matty."

"What in blue blazes are you up to, Styles?" Matthews demanded in a low voice, even as he followed his lover away from the camp and the river, into a nearby copse of trees.

As soon as they were hidden from prying eyes, Matthews found himself swept into a fierce kiss, Styles' strong arms holding him close. Without conscious thought, Matthews returned the ardent kiss, gripping Style's shoulders tightly, realizing then that he'd already removed his shirt. _I should have known he'd think of this..._ He abandoned further coherent thought in favour of responding to Styles' ardour.

* * *

It seemed that Matthews had no sooner returned to his bedroll to try to get a little more sleep than he was awakened again, this time by musket fire. All of the sailors were up within moments, stuffing their feet into their shoes and hurrying out to where the cannons were ready. The sun had risen now and they could see puffs of smoke that indicated where the enemy were firing their muskets from behind trees and bushes.

They took up their positions as quickly and easily as if they were back aboard the _Indy_. They followed Mr Kennedy's commands, aiming the cannon for one of the puffs of smoke. The shot had barely left the cannon before they were told to reload and fire again. The air was thick with smoke by now, but still Mr Kennedy shouted, "Reload and come starboard by a point!"

"But sir, we can't see anything, sir." Matthews tried to reason to with his commanding officer, but his protest was cut off.

"Do as I tell you!" Mr Kennedy's eyes flashed with a fire Matthews hadn't seen in them before. It gave him hope for the young man's naval career, even as he obeyed the order.

Turning to the others, he told them, "Starboard point!"

"Fire! Reload!" Mr Kennedy ordered them. They obeyed without question this time, reloading the cannon as they'd done so many times before. The pattern of reloading was almost comforting in a way, something routine and familiar on a mission that was quite lacking both.

Through the ringing in his ears, Matthews vaguely heard Mr Hornblower's voice behind him, shouting questions. "Archie, where are they? What are you shooting at?"

"Hurry! Come on men, hurry!" Mr Kennedy either didn't hear the questions, or ignored them completely.

"Archie!" Finally, Mr Hornblower shouted, "Mr. Kennedy, report!"

That seemed to get through to the acting lieutenant, because he responded to that command, panting as he answered. "Sir, enemy musket fire across the river. They took us by surprise. Came out of nowhere."

Everyone flinched as bullets struck the wood protecting them, sending bits of wood and splinters flying. Mr Hornblower raised his voice to be heard by the crew operating the other cannon as well as the men in front of him. "Keep your heads down! Don't give them a target!"

"Ready, Styles!" Matthews shouted, having been watching the others load the cannon.

Styles shouted back to indicate that the gun was loaded. "Ready!"

"Ready! Heave! Gun ready!" Matthews poised himself to set off the gun, but waited for a word from either Mr Hornblower or Mr Kennedy.

It was Mr Hornblower who gave the command. "Hold your fire! Hold your fire!"

"Cease fire!" A glance over his shoulder confirmed Matthews' guess that the new voice was that of Major Edrington. He'd had no idea that the major had come, but it made sense for him to be there. After a short pause, where they all caught their breath, Major Edrington asked, "Any attempt on the bridge?"

"No, sir." Mr Kennedy sounded almost sheepish as he answered and Matthews wished he could do something to reassure him, but given their relative positions, it was impossible.

After a short silence, the Earl made a suggestion that was almost an order. "Very well. I suggest you re-form your men."

"Yes." The acting lieutenant sighed. "Aye, aye, sir." Moving away from the cannon, he gestured to Matthews and the others. "Come on men, stand to."

They left the gun and followed their commanding officer back to the camp, more than ready for breakfast after the morning they'd just had.

* * *

After breakfast, they settled in for a long day behind the wooden barriers they'd constructed for their guns. Matthews, Styles, and Oldroyd huddled on one side of their gun while Mr Kennedy crouched on the other side, looking out at the other side of the river. Mr Hornblower alternated between the two guns for part of the morning. After he left to talk with the other two officers in charge, Mr Kennedy took to alternating between the two guns.

While he was by the other gun, Matthews and Styles put into action a plan Matthews had thought of while the three of them sat together. At a nod from Matthews, Styles placed his hat on the end of his cutlass and raised it up above the wood until one of the soldiers across the river shot at it, revealing his position. "Yes, I got him. Up a bit. There we go. A bit more. Let it go. Stand back."

He touched his wick to the gun and it fired, hitting the tree the Frog soldier had been hiding behind. Oldroyd was so pleased by the success of their plan that he stood up and shouted, "Gotcha! Gotcha, you frog!"

Just as another of the men stood up to join Oldroyd, another Frog shot at Oldroyd and got the other seaman in the head. They were staring at their crewmate as he died when Mr Kennedy rushed over, practically snarling his order. "Belay firing! Don't waste the powder." None of them verbally acknowledged his order, but they nodded and picked up their fellow seaman to dispose of the corpse before returning to their post.

After about an hour of flinching every time the Frogs decided to shoot at them, Oldroyd reached his breaking point. "So you want a fight, then, eh? Is that what you want?" Cocking his pistol, he stood up and took a shot at the Frogs.

Almost immediately, Mr Kennedy grabbed Oldroyd and pulled him down out of sight, the expression on his face as fierce as an English bulldog's. "Keep your head or you will lose it. Is that understood?" Oldroyd didn't say anything at first, looking everywhere except at his commanding officer. Mr Kennedy shook him when he didn't reply. "Do you understand, Oldroyd?" Finally, the seaman nodded, sighing. "Good man." Mr Kennedy patted his shoulder and returned to the other gun.

Even after the Frogs had stopped shooting at them, they stayed where they were, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Oldroyd fidgeted with his gun, the drawn-out stress wearing on him more than any of the others. "I knew we should have went to the Indies."

"I told you before: yellow fever, typhoid." Styles' voice was exasperated, but in a fond way. He reached over and ruffled Oldroyd's blond curls. "Much better off here, eh?"

Matthews, who'd been cleaning his gun while keeping an eye on the bridge, noticed movement across the river and started to his feet. "Sir. Have a look at this." Major Edrington was riding his horse across the bridge with some of his troops behind him. Catching Styles' eye, he gestured to the redcoats with his head. "Look out for the lobsters."

All of the others got to their feet to watch the soldiers come, cheering. Oldroyd was the last to stand up, but he was no less pleased. It was a relief to them because it meant they didn't need to sit by the guns anymore, since there were no longer Frogs on the other side of the river.

* * *

They settled at the camp, nibbling on some of their field rations, waiting for further orders. Mr Kennedy suggested that they gather firewood, in case they stayed another night, Matthews volunteered and Styles quickly offered to help him, after a significant look from the older man. The acting lieutenant nodded and sent them on their way. They wandered in the direction of the copse of trees that they had used the night before, slipping among them and out of sight of prying eyes. Relatively alone, they shared a sweet kiss that was more loving than passionate. "We're goin' to die here, ain't we, Ben?"

"Most likely, Matty," Matthews answered quietly, resting his cheek on Styles' broad shoulder gratefully. "I don't see how we can avoid it this time."

Styles sighed, absently stroking Matthews' back. "I don't mind so much, if it was somethin' worth dyin' for, but it ain't. Not really."

"Not for us, no," he agreed, his arms stealing around Styles' waist. They rarely had moments like these and he was determined to enjoy this one. "For the Frogs, maybe."

The taller man gave a huff of irritation and annoyance that was almost a growl. "Bloody frogs. We wouldn't be here 'cept for them."

"Would you rather risk hangin' for desertion?" Matthews asked sternly, tilting his head up to meet his lover's eyes.

As he expected, Styles shook his head. "Naw. Riskin' it for you is enough."

"I'm glad you feel that way." Matthews smiled wryly, though he couldn't help being pleased that Styles still felt the same after so long together. Neither of them were much to look at these days and he liked it that way. Least it meant that Styles was less likely to be tempted. Shaking those thoughts from his head, Matthews allowed himself another kiss before reluctantly stepping back from Styles. "We'd best find that firewood before someone comes lookin' for us."

He stopped when Styles caught his arm and looked up at him curiously. His eyes completely serious, the larger man told him softly, "I love you, Ben."

He had to swallow the lump in his throat before he could answer, but it was no less heartfelt. "I love you, too, Matty."

* * *

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a bit of a blur. Once everything was set in motion, it didn't really stop until they reached the beach and watched the Frogs advance on them, ready to kill them, either with bullets or bayonets, whichever was more convenient. At least Mr Hornblower was with them. Matthews had begun to worry that they'd have to leave him behind. They very nearly did, if not for Mr Kennedy. Watching the young man race the lit fuse across the bridge, Matthews began to wonder if there was more to their relationship than met the eye. He didn't have time to ponder further because the two officers had made it back across the bridge and it was time to go to the beach.

Despite the fact that they had their backs to the ocean with nowhere to go, they were all determined to die fighting. Matthews could see it in the others' eyes as they stood, waiting for the Frogs to attack. The Major refused to let them fire the first volley, however. When he ordered his men to fire, though, much louder guns sent plumes of debris and dust into the air, surprising all of them. Looking out to sea, Oldroyd exclaimed, "It's the _Indy_!"

All of them cheered in relief as the Frogs were sent running by the unexpected strength of their attack. Matthews and Styles even allowed themselves a brief hug of relief before they settled down to wait for the Indy to send out boats to retrieve them. As he stood at the top of the main topsail, feeling the wind blow in his face once more, Matthews felt at peace once more. The sea was his home. All he asked was that, however much time he had left, Styles be there to share it with him.

**End**


	5. Aboard the Renown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the events on the _Renown_ and how they affect Matthews and Styles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during _Mutiny_ and parts of _Retribution_.

**Aboard the _Renown_**

When Matthews and Styles learned that they were to be transferred to the _Renown_ as Bo'sun and Bo'sun's Mate, they were delighted. To serve under the command of one of Nelson's own! It was beyond their wildest dreams. They were given leave to celebrate with the others who were to be transferred and celebrate they did. They drank more than they typically did, but it would have looked suspicious to their shipmates if they hadn't. When they got too rowdy, they were kicked out of that inn and simply continued their celebrations in another.

Every time Matthews and Styles tried to slip away to continue their celebration in private, one of the others would snag them and keep them from getting away. Thus, they found themselves at a brothel with the other men, unable to avoid taking advantage of the services being offered. They shared a look and a nod before going inside. They would meet at an inn afterwards, where they would wash and enjoy the rest of their celebration in peace.

* * *

Matthews learned quickly that there were advantages and disadvantages to promotion. While, on the one hand, he heard the officers discussing what to do in the midst of a storm, he was also present when Captain Sawyer scolded Mr Hornblower for his initiative, even though it could very well keep the ship afloat. At least the lieutenant had the sense not to argue, to simply accept the criticism, unjust as it was. Matthews wasn't too worried for Styles when Captain Sawyer promised a flogging for the last of the division to make it to the deck, regardless of how much he would have hated to administer it regardless. His lover was too seasoned a seaman to be the last to make it down. The boy Styles had taken under his wing--Michael Sullivan--might have been the last one, if he hadn't fallen from the yardarm.

Mr Hornblower rushed forward to the boy's side with Matthews and Mr Kennedy right behind him. "Pass the word for the doctor!"

"He's dead, Sir." Matthews had seen it too often in his years at sea. No one could survive a fall like that. Not even Styles with his hard head.

Behind them, Captain Sawyer demanded the verdict of Mr Hornblower. "Well?" When Lieutenant Hornblower didn't answer right away, he repeated himself. "Well?!"

"He's dead!" Mr Hornblower wasn't looking at the body anymore, only the deck.

As if he hadn't asked Lieutenant Hornblower specifically, the captain commented, "Dr Clive will be the judge of that. Doctor?"

Dr Clive leaned over to look at the boy, seeing for himself. "Dead, Sir."

"What are you waiting for, Mr Hornblower? Have the lubber thrown over the side." Matthews jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see that Styles had joined them, grief in his eyes as he took in the lad. "Do you hear, Mr Hornblower?"

When Lieutenant Hornblower didn't answer or acknowledge the captain's orders, Mr Kennedy tried to urge him to speak. "For God's sake, Horatio."

"The lad's dead, Sir." Only Matthews could see how much effort it took Styles to say that, to agree to treat a member of their own division so casually. "Nothin'll bring him back. Isn't that right, Mr Kennedy?"

Lieutenant Kennedy nodded, sympathy evident in his eyes despite the storm that lashed rain into their faces. "Yes, Styles, that's right."

"We can read over him later, Sir." Matthews added his voice, finding Styles' hand and squeezing it gently before releasing it.

Captain Sawyer's voice intruded on them. "Mr Hornblower, get that man off my quarterdeck."

The lieutenant slowly stood and turned to face Captain Sawyer, putting his hat on. Grudgingly, he saluted. "Aye-aye, Sir."

Matthews helped Styles throw the lad overboard, thankful for the rain that hid any evidence of tears on either of their faces. This wasn't what they'd expected when they'd transferred to the _Renown_. Yet, the nightmare was only beginning.

* * *

They had to put in to port to taken on fresh supplies and a new second lieutenant because the last one, Mr Reynolds, had been lost at sea. The new one, Mr Bush, came aboard not long before the captain did. After observing the usual pomp, Matthews and Styles went back to what they'd been doing. When Mr Wellard went below to see why the men were being so noisy, Matthews hesitated only a moment before following him. He stifled a curse when he realized that Styles was fighting with Randall. He was pretty sure he knew why. At Mr Wellard's request, he bellowed for silence, staying near Styles in hopes of keeping him from attacking Randall again.

"Right, what's going on here?" No one answered the midshipman's question, but that was hardly a surprise. He was younger than pretty much all of the men present and none of them were willing to obey him. "You, Randall, what's all this?"

"Just settling a little difference of opinion you might say." Randall smirked at Styles and Matthews as he answered, shaking out his arm.

Mr Hobbs, a gunner, appeared just then, explaining further. "Captain Sawyer loves a bit of bare-knuckle between the men. Keeps them ready for the real thing, he says."

"Come on, Matthews, get them to break this up." At least the midshipman knew to turn to someone else if he couldn't get the men to obey him.

Matthews, for his part, was happy to obey. He didn't like it when the men brawled with each other. It made it more difficult to run a ship. "Aye-aye, Mr Wellard. Come on, now--" Randall started for Styles, obviously unwilling to give up the fight just yet. "Hey!"

"Hold hard there, Mr Matthews." It was Hobbs again. He hadn't liked the man from the first. He followed the captain too blindly. "This hasn't been settled yet. The captain wouldn't like it if he knew we were interfering in the men's sport, would he?"

The bo'sun answered archly, determined to make his point clear. "The Captain doesn't need to know, does he, Mr Hobbs?"

"Yeah, not unless some little toady--" Styles' comment was cut short when Randall started to attack him again.

Matthews stumbled when he was pushed out of the way, by Styles no less. "Hey!"

"Come on. Randall, break it up now!" Mr Wellard was trying at least, but he wasn't helped by the fact that he was years younger, pounds lighter, and inches shorter than the seaman.

Randall sneered at his attempts to stop the fight. "Make me, little boy."

"'Sir,' Randall! You call him 'Sir!'" That was Mr Kennedy, storming in with a thunderous expression on his face. Matthews was once again reminded of an English bulldog. This time, however, he had a bite to back up his bark.

Mr Hornblower was right on the fourth lieutenant's heels. "Any man... _any_ man, Mr Hobbs, who thinks differently had better remember the punishment for disobeying a superior officer. Tell them, Matthews."

"Death, Sir." He didn't meet anyone's eyes while he said that, least of all Styles'. He understood that the two officers were trying to make a point, but he hated that he was in the middle, caught between them and the ratings.

Lieutenant Hornblower nodded, dark eyes flashing with his ire. "Indeed, death. And best you all remember it."

The officers left after that. With some urging from Matthews, Styles started to follow them. When he turned back to glare at Randall, as if he wanted to continue the fight, Matthews stopped him and urged him to walk away. Once they were alone, he retrieved some liniment that he kept in his dunnage and began to apply it to Styles' injuries. "He's a bad egg, Randall. It's best you ignore him."

"He killed Sullivan, Matty," Styles answered, flinching as his lover dabbed at his split lip. "Pushed 'im so he could get down first. I tried to catch 'im, but I couldn't, not with all the rain."

"I know you was fond of 'im." Matthews ignored the nickname as he finished tending to Styles' injuries, meeting his eyes steadily as he barely cupped his chin. "But you _'ave_ to let it go. We're goin' to have enough trouble on this voyage as it is without you brawlin' with Randall every time you 'ave a difference o' opinion with 'im."

Styles sighed, reaching up to catch Matthews' hand in his, squeezing it gently to convey what they couldn't say. "I'll try. I can't promise more'n that."

"I know." Matthews returned the squeeze, smiling faintly. They knew each other well enough now that words weren't necessary. Sometimes it was nice to hear them, though.

* * *

Matthews had never been fond of administering punishments, but had accepted that it was part of his duties as bo'sun. To punish a boy for doing his duty made him feel even worse. He could see in Styles' eyes that he didn't like it anymore than he did, but there was little they could do without bringing punishment down on themselves, too. While the captain may have regretted not being able to have Lieutenant Hornblower caned, Matthews was grateful they could avoid that. Still, thirty-six hours on continuous watch would be a nightmare, especially given the conditions on the ship. Nineteen under an understanding captain had been bad enough.

He normally would have offered to help Dr Clive in the sickbay, but he'd learned early on in his term of service that the doctor only wanted help from men he knew already. So he retreated to the cable tiers, coiling the lines and cables properly. It was soothing in a way, the mindless task providing a relief from duties he'd come to despise. That's where Styles found him a couple hours later to tell him that the captain was after Mr Wellard. He'd hoped Captain Sawyer was done picking on the lad, but it was obviously not to be.

Matthews was very relieved when Mr Hornblower interrupted them before he'd made the first stroke because he could see the lines on the seat of Mr Wellard's trousers that had bled through from the first caning. He'd winced when he first saw them and doubted the lad would withstand another full dozen. Even as he hurried up to the deck with Styles, he knew that the punishment was only delayed, not forgotten. The captain had made it clear that it would take place as soon as they'd dealt with the two French frigates that had prompted Lieutenant Hornblower to interrupt them in the first place.

With this in mind, he was sharper with the rest of his gun crew than he normally might have been, expressing some of the anger and frustration he'd been keeping bottled up inside. It was a safer means than Styles' habit of picking fights or muttering under his breath. Though he couldn't resist lashing out at Hobbs, who couldn't understand why the men were being so clumsy and stupid about their business. "They're drunk! That's what's wrong with the buggers!"

"Beware a loose tongue, Mr Matthews," Hobbs shot back, still trying to get his gun crew to do their job properly. "You never know where it might lead."

Matthews waited until he had a spare moment to address Hobbs, insulting him with cruel relish. "My tongue may be loose, Mr Hobbs, but at least it's not raw from licking the captain's ass."

All of the anger and frustration faded, though, as he watched the frigates pull away without challenging them. Captain Sawyer wouldn't be pleased about losing the chance to fight again. Even though they would likely have been badly mauled if _had_ come to a battle. The crew hadn't been kept in fighting trim and most had been drunk on a ration of rum besides. His heart sinking, he knew the captain would find a way to blame the lack of action on Lieutenant Hornblower and Mr Wellard. And he would be an unwilling witness to their punishments for it.

* * *

Matthews had known from the moment he met Seaman Thomas Randall that he was going to be trouble. He was insolent and unruly, barely showing him the proper respect due him as bo'sun and none at all for Styles as bo'sun's mate. It had been Randall's almost-disrespect for Matthews that had annoyed the younger man more than the _complete_ lack of respect for himself. It was touching in a way, but he'd prefer that Styles not rise to Randall's bait at all. He told him as much when they had a quiet moment together: "You'd do well not to let Randall get to you."

Styles paused in his carving of the figure he'd been working on for a few days now, his expression annoyed and exasperated. "But he's so--"

He didn't let Styles finish the thought, musing that it was best to be prudent. "Hey, you're bo'sun's mate now. It's your job to _keep_ order." Not be the cause of any disorder.

"Message from Mr Hornblower." Their discussion was interrupted by a seaman he only vaguely recognized as being from the same gun crew as Randall. "Could you turn to him on deck?"

"Is that all he said?" It was an awfully cryptic message and not the sort Lieutenant Hornblower usually sent. For the most part, the reason was included.

"No, he also said look lively." The seaman left and, after giving Styles a warning glance, Matthews did, too. It was best not to keep the lieutenant waiting.

Looking back, he realized that being sent to Mr Hornblower had simply been a way to get him away from Styles so Randall could pummel him properly. Thankfully, once he and Lieutenants Hornblower and Kennedy realized that the message had been a fake, they summoned a couple marines and headed belowdecks to find Styles. They found him near where he had last seen his lover. Except now he was being held up by two of Randall's mates while the seaman himself was beating him.

"Get off him, damn you!" Mr Hornblower pulled Randall away and pushed him at the two marines, who restrained him. "By God, you'll pay for this. Now put him in irons."

While they took their prisoner away, Matthews knelt beside Styles to begin checking him over, his heart breaking over how much damage had been done in such a short amount of time. Styles tried to say something, but he couldn't quite hear it, so he put his ear close to Styles' mouth to better hear it. When Lieutenant Hornblower asked what Styles had said, he made up something about him saying he was winning. He knew _I love you_ would hardly be appropriate.

The lieutenant accepted that and helped him get Styles to his feet and ordered him to be taken to sickbay. Though Matthews didn't trust Dr Clive fully, he knew it was the best place for Styles, after the beating he'd received. The surgeon was annoyed when the bo'sun insisted on staying, but he grudgingly set him to cleaning away the blood so he could properly tend to Styles. He did it gladly, grateful for the excuse to fuss over his lover.

Flogging Randall would have been a pleasure for Matthews, but the captain took that away, dismissing all charges. Anger boiled up inside him at such blatant disregard for order and discipline. He pushed it down, though, retreating to the cable tiers once again. When he'd finished there, he returned to the mess for dinner with his gun crew. It was very quiet and subdued. The others knew they'd been wrong to abandon Styles, but they feared Randall more than they did the bo'sun or his mate.

* * *

That night, Matthews found Lieutenant Hornblower asleep at his post. Rather than run to the captain, he kept watch so his commanding officer got some much-needed rest, punishment be damned. After about half an hour, he sat down beside him and murmured gently, "Sir."

Mr Hornblower woke up with a start, giving a sigh of relief when he saw the bo'sun. "Matthews."

"How many hours is it now, Sir?" He didn't really need to ask. He'd been counting probably as earnestly as the lieutenant.

Lieutenant Hornblower sighed softly, rubbing his eyes. "Thirty-five."

"Well done, Sir." He hesitated a moment before offering an anecdote that would hopefully comfort the younger man. "Managed 19 hours meself once before. Collapsed--dead on my face."

When he paused, Mr Hornblower prompted him, "What happened then?"

"The captain was a kind man, Sir." Matthews admitted reluctantly, aware that their situations were quite different. "He gave me a dozen lashes and let the whole matter drop."

The lieutenant looked out over the ship, murmuring wryly, "Pray God I'm as fortunate."

"Indeed, Sir." The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized what they implied and hurried to fix the impression. "Not that--"

"Let us hope not, Matthews." Thankfully, Lieutenant Hornblower was an understanding officer. After a few moments of silence, listening to the sound of the crew's revelry, the other man commented ruefully, "A lively crew."

Aware of the danger of his words, he still felt compelled to tell the young man of what he'd been hearing from the crew. "Not all, Sir. Some of the men don't like it any more than I do."

"Watch your tongue, Matthews." Mr Hornblower's voice was sharp, but he didn't take the scolding to heart. Both of them knew they could be hung if they were caught discussing even the possibility of a mutiny.

"Sorry, Sir." He wasn't, though, because he knew no one else was nearby. It gave him enough boldness to add, "I speak for a third of the men, Sir."

A few moments later, Mr Wellard arrived, disturbing them. Lieutenant Hornblower dismissed him and he took to his bunk. He didn't get much sleep, though, because the captain somehow fell in the hold. No one knew how he'd fallen, but the general opinion was that he'd been pushed, despite the fact that there was no conclusive proof that that's what had happened. The chief suspects were Lieutenants Hornblower and Kennedy, as well as Mr Wellard, because all three had been present when the captain fell.

This worried Matthews because if someone _had_ pushed the captain, instead of him falling, that meant that they would all be guilty of mutiny and could swing from the yardarm. Though, it was more likely that the officers who led them would swing. He didn't want to see any of the lieutenants die a traitor's death, except perhaps Lieutenant Buckland. None of them had any say, though, so they could only do their duty and hope that things would work out for the best.

* * *

Even though no one was sure of what would happen to them now, Matthews felt cheerful enough the next day to tease Styles about the bruises he'd received from Randall, "I do believe a bit of bruising about the face improves your looks."

"I've had worse beatings at the hands of me father...if he _was_ me father." Styles chuckled, understanding the message hidden in the words. Matthews was surprised by the reference to his lover's life before the Navy. They rarely spoke about the past. It didn't really have any bearing on the present or the future, so they let it be.

Randall appeared just then, souring the moment and their mood. "Next time, I'm going to do you for good, Styles."

"It's you we'll be tossin' to the crabs, Randall." Styles glowered at the seaman, annoyed by the fact that the other man had managed to avoid being flogged for beating him so badly.

Matthews felt compelled to add to the comment, just as annoyed that he hadn't had the chance to punish Randall for what he'd done to Styles. "Except they'd spit him out, because they're very particular about what they eat, the crabs."

Hobbs arrived at that moment, poking his nose in where it wasn't wanted. "It's more likely when the captain comes back you two will be dancing from the end of a rope. You and whoever it was who pushed the captain into the hold."

Styles started for Hobbs, ready to fight him for that comment. Matthews stopped him, though. A brawl was the last thing they needed at the moment with the ship in the state it was at the moment. "Save it, Styles. He's all mouth."

"Oh, no, that's a promise." The gunner didn't smirk, just gazed at them in a cold, calculating way that unsettled him far more than Randall's smug look. "I've got a nice bit of yardarm for you two, and an extra bit for Mr Wellard." He glanced up at the midshipman across the deck.

"The captain fell; we all know that." Matthews was quick to remind them that they had no proof that the captain had been pushed, as well as defending Mr Hornblower and Mr Kennedy, in an indirect sort of way.

Randall scoffed, disbelieving him. "Of course he did."

"Anyway, you two won't be so leery if the captain doesn't come back, I can tell you." Hobbs gave Randall a glance as if to warn him.

Styles glared and raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Why not?"

"Because Lieutenant Buckland is a born fool," Hobbs explained, reminding Matthews of his first impression of the first lieutenant. "He couldn't command a trip 'round the bay, never mind a seventy-four."

* * *

They weren't given much time to think about Hobbs' statement. Finally, gunnery drills were ordered. Matthews and Styles worked hard, goading the others in their crew to work fast and efficiently. He couldn't resist exchanging an exhilarated glance with his lover afterwards. This brought back memories of their time aboard the _Indy_. Sometimes, after just such a gunnery drill, they would sneak to the sail locker or somewhere else belowdecks to share a few heated kisses, perhaps more if they were feeling daring. With the ship like this, though, they hardly dared to even touch each other, not even a brush of their hands together.

Matthews was distracted from his thoughts by Mr Hornblower's approach. He listened attentively to his request and saluted, a little bewildered by it. When he related it to Styles, he was just as surprised. Still, they obeyed their lieutenant, pulling out the water pump and using it to spray the young man. He seemed to enjoy it, encouraging the men to pump faster. This amused the crew, who watched with delight as one of their superiors, for all intents and purposes, made a fool of himself in front of them.

Unfortunately, the captain arrived when no one was looking and had Lieutenants, Bush, Hornblower, and Kennedy arrested. They watched with dismay as the three men, their only hope for surviving this nightmare, were escorted to the brig as mutineers. The water pump was put away and the _Renown_ made all speed for the Spanish fort. Styles was ordered to sound the bay while Matthews was in charge of aiming the gun for the fort. He tried to reason with the captain, explaining that the fort was too high for their guns.

Captain Sawyer was insistent, refusing Mr Buckland's pleas to leave, or at least release Mr Bush, Mr Hornblower, and Mr Kennedy so they could help command the guns. The fact that the fort's guns were slowly splintering them apart had no bearing on the captain's decision, either. Still, Matthews did as he was ordered: he fired the gun, hitting the cliff instead of the fort. Not long after that, they ran aground. Lieutenant Buckland seemed too dazed to respond to the situation, so Matthews decided it was time he took matters into his own hands, calling for Styles to help him. He was the only man he trusted.

Styles started to climb back onto the ship from where he'd been taking soundings, but a shot from the fort knocked him back over the side. His heart in his throat, Matthews rushed across to the railing and looked out over the water, searching for his lover. A shout from below drew his attention and relief flooded through him. The larger man's foot had caught in the rigging, saving him from falling into the water. With Matthews' help, Styles was soon back aboard and he couldn't help expressing his relief with a cheeky comment. "Why is it I can never find you when I need you? Come on."

They hurried belowdecks to the brig to free the three lieutenants. Mr Hobbs and Randall tried to stop them, but they were more concerned about getting the ship out of range of the fort's guns to care about niceties. Once the three younger men were free of the brig, they began issuing orders, already planning how best to get them unstuck. It was a blur of confusion, screams of wounded men, explosions, splintering wood, and straining mightily to turn the capstan, but they eventually succeeded, cheering as the ship was slowly pulled out of the line of fire. Now it was time to tend to the wounded and prepare the dead for burial at sea.

* * *

It became clear how many men agreed with Mr Hobbs' assessment of Lieutenant Buckland when Matthews was rousing the men for their watch. He found a number of empty hammocks when there should have been men in them. He got Styles and they reported the desertion to the four lieutenants. When the crew had been mustered so they could accurately count how many were missing, it became clear that Randall and his mates were among the deserters. Neither Matthews nor Styles were surprised by this revelation.

The announced attack on the fort _did_ come as a surprise, but a welcome one. Matthews cheered with the rest of the men. The simple prospect of action boosted morale incredibly. He joined in the preparations with a will, grateful for something productive to do. Styles seemed to be of the same mind, because he didn't complain once about the extra work required of him. There was a part of Matthews that wondered if that was the reason for attacking the fort, aside from removing it from Spanish hands.

Finally, the preparations were finished and they rowed for land, his stomach fluttering with familiar pre-battle nerves. Despite his many years of service and countless engagements, he always felt nervous anticipation prior to an action of any kind. He knew it was the same for Styles. They'd discussed it over the years. They exchanged meaningful glances as they rowed, acknowledging that one or both of them could die in the coming battle. Then they were ashore and too busy unloading everything to share such looks again.

As they set off for the fort, Matthews overheard Mr Hobbs promising to help keep Mr Wellard safe. Though part of him suspected the gunner's motives weren't completely unselfish, he chose to think better of him and expressed pleasure that the gunner was looking after _everyone's_ interests, not just the captain's. When they reached the top of the rise of land they were climbing, they found their missing crew members, all dead. As he and Styles helped to stack the corpses respectfully, Matthews listened to the lieutenants discussing the dead crewmembers. The third lieutenant had a good point and Matthews was inclined to agree with him.

When they finished, Mr Hobbs requested permission to bury the dead, but was refused. It would have taken too long and the sky was already beginning to lighten as it was. Styles was more like himself, speaking without thinking first. When even a threat from Mr Bush didn't make his lover stop, he decided to intervene before Styles got them in trouble: "A word of friendly advice, Styles: shut it."

Thankfully, his lover listened and obediently shut his mouth. Not that it did them much good when the sound of gunfire reached them from the _Renown_. It startled and dismayed all of them to hear it. The element of surprise they'd been counting on was gone now. They had no choice but to charge, so they did, right into the teeth of the dago gunfire. He never knew how he survived it all, but he was glad he did. It meant Styles wouldn't have to mourn for him just yet.

In the end, they were able to take the fort, though he hadn't liked being ordered away from Styles' side to help Lieutenant Hornblower search for the "back door" into the fort. God only knew how much trouble he'd end up in without anyone to keep him from doing anything rash. Still, he couldn't disobey an order, so he trusted that his lover would keep his head for once. Afterwards, while the officers discussed the terms of the dons' surrender, Matthews and Styles sat together on the beach and watched the men relax in the sun. As they sat there, their shoulders just brushing, they took turns recounting their parts in the battle and expressing their relief that they'd both managed to survive.

After a short silence, Styles, his voice serious and thoughtful for once, asked, "'ave ye ever wondered what yer life would've been like if you hadn't been impressed, Matty?"

"Sometimes, aye." He'd gotten used to ignoring Styles' nickname for him. He'd get him back later. Provided, of course, that they _had_ a later. "Can't really imagine it, though."

"The Navy's in yer blood, now, eh?" Styles smirked, nudging him with one broad shoulder and nearly toppling him over in the process.

"Somethin' like that, aye." Matthews smiled wryly, even as he agreed. He straightened up and nudged Styles back, not even budging him. "What about you?"

"Probably would've ended up a drunk bastard like me father." The younger man's answer was calm and matter-of-fact. He dropped one large hand to the sand between them, just brushing Matthews' trousers with his fingertips.

"If you'd've even lived long enough." The older man couldn't resist a chance to poke fun at his lover. He also dropped his own hand to the sand between them as well, resting it over Styles' larger one.

The big man didn't respond in words, simply rolling his eyes at his lover. They sat in silence after that, enjoying each other's company. All too soon, events would force them to keep their distance and they wouldn't know when they might have another chance at a quiet moment together. It was best to enjoy such moments when they could.

**End**


	6. In Kingston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Depicts my version of the court-martial in Kingston.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Mylodon on LJ for helping me work out how to change things so Archie's name wouldn't be ruined.

**In Kingston**

Ben Matthews had looked forward to their arrival in Kingston, but not something like this. He hadn't liked the idea of transporting the Spanish, but he hadn't expected them to try to take over the ship. In retrospect, though, when he recalled how much Buckland had seemed to falter and fumble, he could understand why the Spaniards had tried to take over the ship. It had led to some of the most intense fighting in his experience. Thankfully, neither he nor Styles had been grievously wounded.

Unfortunately, Captain Sawyer had been killed and young Wellard had almost died with him. The Spanish bullet meant for him had grazed his scalp and buried itself inside the planks behind him and the captain. Though his wound hadn't been serious, it had been enough to knock him unconscious. By the time he'd woken up to Clive dressing his wound, it was too late to save the captain.

Mr Kennedy had suffered a similar wound to Captain Sawyer's, but he was young and healthy and still fought to live. Matthews personally thought that the fourth lieutenant was clinging to life only long enough to ensure that Mr Hornblower wouldn't be hung for mutiny. He'd long suspected that the two young men were more than friends to each other. He'd come across them kissing in the cable tiers aboard the _Indefatigable_ not long after they'd returned from Spain. He'd purposely withdrawn and approached again, making much more noise than he normally would. By the time he'd reached the cable tiers, they'd pulled apart. He'd saluted and begged their pardon for disturbing them.

After that, he'd never caught them doing anything more to break Article XXIX, but little actions and behaviours had hinted that they'd simply become more discrete. After Mr Kennedy's injury, they had become a little more obvious, at least to Matthews. He doubted he would have noticed if he hadn't been looking for the signs. He hoped no one else was looking, though he suspected that Mr Bush had noticed a few of them. There was something about the way he watched the two younger men that suggested he had.

Matthews couldn't do or say anything without giving away the two lieutenants for certain. He could only hope that the third lieutenant wouldn't say anything when they reached Kingston. At first, they were all locked in the prison at the fort: officers, crew, and Spanish prisoners alike. Then it was decided that only the four lieutenants would be charged with mutiny, so the crew and the other officers were released, with the understanding that they might be called in for questioning during the trial itself.

Mr Kennedy and Mr Bush were excused from testifying due to their injuries, unless what they had to say was absolutely vital. Matthews sincerely hoped it wouldn't come to that. In order to establish what had led to the mutiny, the tribunal requested Matthews' testimony as the Bo'sun as to how the ship had been run before Sawyer fell into the hold. He didn't like the information he had to impart, but honesty was required. "I'm not pleased to say this, Sirs, but there was almost no discipline at all. The men were allowed to act 'owever they wished and weren't punished for it. Yet, some were punished for perfomin' their duties like they were supposed to."

"Remember, Mr Matthews, this is one of Nelson's own you're speaking of," Captain Hammond almost growled the words at him. "Be careful what you say."

"I know that, Captain." He met the captain's eyes steadily. "I've been in the Navy for over twenty years and served under many different captains. I can't remember bein' more pleased an' proud to be chosen to serve under a captain than when I was told I'd be servin' under Captain Sawyer, 'cept when I found out I'd be servin' under Commodore Pellew."

He spoke honestly and calmly, noticing the other man's reaction to his words. "Thank you, Mr Matthews. I'm flattered."

"We're not talking about the Commodore," Captain Hammond interrupted, sounding more than a little exasperated. "We're talking about Captain Sawyer."

"Aye, Sir." Matthews nodded, clearing his throat. "Unfortunately, actually servin' under Captain Sawyer wasn't somethin' to be proud of. The only time we did any gunnery drills at all was right after 'e fell into the 'old. The rest of the time, most of the crew was either too drunk on rum or too 'ungover to be any good."

Hammond's gaze seemed to sharpen as both he and Collins leaned forward in their seats. "Yes, his fall into the hold. What do you know about that?"

"Nothin' at all, Sir, 'ceptin' what the crew was told," he answered, resisting the urge to fidget under the three steady gazes. "That somehow the captain 'ad fallen and wasn't able to command any longer."

Collins raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Hammond across Pellew. "Do you believe that he fell?"

"Aye, Sir, I do." He didn't dare glance over to where the two lieutenants were sitting. "I've served with Mr 'ornblower since 'e was a midshipman on the _Justinian_. 'e never lies. 'e 'as always told the truth."

He could tell by the expressions on the captains' faces that they hadn't wanted to hear that. Still, it was the truth. He had no reason to believe that Lieutenant Hornblower had lied about what had happened in the hold. The commodore, on the other hand, simply nodded quietly in agreement with what Matthews had said. Still, Hammond tried. "You don't think it's possible that he may have developed a habit of lying?"

"Not at all, Sir." He shook his head firmly. "Not Mr 'ornblower."

"Thank you, Mr Matthews, that will do." Commodore Pellew's dismissal prevented either of the captains from saying anything else, much to the bo'sun's relief. He'd hated the way they'd harped on Mr Hornblower. It was as if they _wanted_ him to be the one responsible for the mutiny. "We have enough now."

"Aye-aye, Sir." He saluted and stepped down, returning to his seat beside Styles. His hands were shaking. He'd thought for sure they'd hear the way his heart was pounding in his chest. "I've never been so terrified in me life."

"Ye did fine, Matty," Styles whispered, barely brushing his hand against Matthews' under the excuse of shifting position on the hard wooden bench.

"Thank ye, Styles." He returned the gesture and they fell silent as another crewmember was called forward to testify. At the front of the room, he could see Mr Buckland and Mr Hornblower sitting straight-backed in their chairs, listening as their actions were picked apart.

* * *

When the crew had been released, Matthews and Styles had taken a room together at an inn near the fort. They went to the fort every day, to sit and watch as the tribunal seemed to edge closer and closer to a verdict. Finally, Wellard was called in to testify. He no longer had a bandage wrapped around his head and stood straight and tall before the tribunal. He was so pale that his freckles stood out, but his voice was steady as he gave his evidence. "Captain Sawyer was not pushed into the hold. He fell."

"You don't expect us to believe that, do you?" It was Captain Hammond again, dark eyes glowering at the midshipman.

"It's true, Sir," Wellard insisted, not at all frightened of the man. He'd seen worse under Sawyer's command. "We tried to catch him, but it wasn't enough."

"We? Who's we?" Captain Collins asked the question that time.

"Mr Hornblower, Mr Kennedy, and myself, Sir," answered the midshipman, looking straight ahead at the tribunal.

Matthews wasn't sure if he was imagining things, but it seemed to him that Commodore Pellew wasn't happy with the revelation. He held up a hand to keep either of the captains from asking anything. "Both will confirm what you've said?"

"Yes, Sir." Wellard nodded and Matthews wished he could see the lad's face.

"Very well." Pellew nodded in return, as if that settled matters.

"Can you tell us anything else, young Wellard?" Captain Hammond wasn't so easily satisfied. "Perhaps about the doctor's habit of dosing his patients with laudanum?"

"He prescribed it as a relief from pain, Sir." The lad seemed to stiffen as he answered the question. "It did not keep me from performing my duties."

"What about the captain? Did the doctor prescribe laudanum for him as well?" It seemed the Irish captain was determined to blame the drug one way or another.

"You will have to ask the doctor about that, Sir." Wellard's voice was very stiff and formal. "I know nothing about it."

"Of course you don't," Captain Hammond muttered this, looking very disappointed.

"Did Captain Sawyer ever recover properly from his...fall?" Captain Collins asked that particular question, examining the papers in front of him.

Matthews wished once again that he could see the lad's face as silence descended while everyone waited for his answer. Everyone seated on the benches shifted and fidgeted as the silence stretched out. Even the three members of the tribunal began to exchange curious glances. It was a fairly simple question to answer. Either Sawyer had recovered, or he hadn't.

Finally, just as it looked as if Captain Collins was getting ready to repeat himself, Wellard spoke: "Yes, he did. It was while the Spanish prisoners were attempting to take over the ship. I went into the captain's cabin to defend him in case the Spanish attacked him. He was reading through his logs and he seemed very rational then."

" _Seemed_ rational?" Collins asked, interrupting the report. "How would you know?"

"He was different from how he'd been before. Especially since he fell." Wellard explained, seeming to falter for a moment. When none of the officers answered, he continued. "Then there was banging on the door. The Spanish had come. As we stood up to face them, Captain Sawyer stumbled and I caught him. When I did, he looked straight at me and said: _You tried to catch me before, when I fell into the hold. Thank you._ "

He paused as his words caused a stir among the people watching. Part of Matthews wondered if Wellard was telling the truth, but he would never dare to question his testimony. Of course, Captain Hammond was of higher rank and he was _required_ to question him. He seemed almost gleeful as he pounced on what the midshipman had said. "That's unusual, given how he'd treated you until then."

"I was surprised, too," the lad answered after a pause, glancing down a moment. "Still, that's what he said to me." There was silence as the three officers studied Wellard, weighing his answer in their minds. None of them said anything, though, and Commodore Pellew gestured for the midshipman to continue: "We stood up straight and faced the doors as two Spanish soldiers finally broke them down. I killed one with the pistol I had with me, but we had no other weapons. The other raised his gun and shot Captain Sawyer. There was a third soldier behind him and he aimed for me. The last thing I remember is him pulling the trigger and a flash of pain along my head." His hand twitched unconsciously, as if to touch the spot where he'd been hit by the bullet.

"Thank you, Mr Wellard. That is all," Commodore Pellew dismissed the midshipman before further questions could be asked. From the expressions on the two captains' faces, Matthews guessed that both of them would have liked to ask more questions. Perhaps they doubted the midshipman's story. It was too late, though. The commodore was in charge and he decided whether they would ask more questions or not.

"Aye-aye, Sir." Wellard saluted and stepped down from the stand. He paused and stared at the two lieutenants for several moments before returning to his seat. Stealing a glance at the lad, Matthews could see that his hands were shaking as he held his hat on his knee, his freckles seeming to fade as his face returned to its usual colour. The worst was over for him now.

* * *

The midshipman's testimony marked a change in the proceedings. Before, Captain Hammond had seemed determined to pin the blame on Mr Hornblower while Commodore Pellew had been focused on shifting the blame _away_ from him. After, however, all three seemed to focus more on Mr Buckland and the fact that he was the first lieutenant and acting captain. On the last day, when the tribunal would announce its decision, Mr Bush caused a stir when he entered the court room and took his seat with the other two lieutenants. Up until then, he'd been confined to a cell in the fort prison with Mr Kennedy, recovering from a nasty slash he'd received when the Spanish had attempted to take over the _Renown_.

Commodore Pellew called for order and everyone quieted down. "Due to largely circumstantial evidence regarding what happened to Captain James Sawyer on the night he fell or was pushed into the hold, it is the decision of this tribunal that neither First Lieutenant Robert Buckland, Second Lieutenant William Bush, Third Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, nor Fourth Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy are responsible for mutiny."

This certainly caused a stir and everyone started murmuring to each other. Styles turned to Matthews and muttered, "That means they won't be hung?"

"Aye, Styles," he replied, noticing that the three lieutenants seemed to have relaxed, at least somewhat. "I'll explain later."

"Order!" Pellew's voice boomed through the room, silencing the babble of conversation. "It has become clear, however, that Acting Captain Buckland was only able to accomplish the Renown's mission thanks to the competency of his junior officers."

Matthews' heart sank for the first lieutenant at those words, even though he fully realized that they were fully justified in their decision. Styles tapped Matthews' shoulder. "What does he mean, Matty?"

He waved off his lover for the moment, his eyes on what was taking place at the front of the room. "Shut it, Styles. I'll explain later."

Pellew's next words fell on an utterly silent courtroom, almost ringing with the finality of his verdict. "It is therefore the decision of this tribunal that Acting Captain Robert Buckland is guilty of gross incompetence in the performance of his duties, both as First Lieutenant and Acting Captain. His command of the _Renown_ is therefore discontinued and he remains a lieutenant. Court adjourned."

Mr Buckland remained unmoving in his seat, staring straight ahead as everyone started getting up and leaving. The glimpse Matthews got of his face suggested why: he was too stunned to react to anything. While the first lieutenant sat like a bump on a log, the second and third lieutenants turned to each other, speaking quietly. He worked his way through the crowd to try to speak with them, Styles right behind him.

Just as they drew near, Matthews heard Mr Bush saying, "He won't last much longer. You should go see him."

"I will, thank you, Mr Bush." Mr Hornblower nodded and rose to depart. While he didn't run, it was the quickest Matthews had seen the young man walk in a long time.

* * *

"Mr Matthews, I'm glad I caught you." He stopped and knuckled his forehead when Dr Paul Stevens approached him. "Commodore Pellew said you might be able to assist me with a surgery that needs to be done soon."

He blinked, startled, and wondered what the doctor meant. "It's been awhile since I assisted with a surgery, Sir. Dr Clive didn't trust me to help."

"It's not something you forget easily," Dr Stevens replied, gesturing for Matthews to come with him. Puzzled, he followed him to a house near the fort. Why were they going to a private residence instead of the infirmary at the fort? It would make more sense to do a surgery there.

Then he saw whom the doctor was going to operate on and paused in the doorway. "Mr Kennedy, Sir?"

"Yes, Matthews." The doctor nodded, checking that he had all of his instruments. "He still lives, despite what you may have heard. We must act quickly if he is to have a chance at all."

He nodded, absently saluting as he moved further into the room. "Aye, Sir." He was well aware of how much Lieutenant Kennedy meant to Mr Hornblower and how much his commanding officer was grieving for the blond lieutenant. If there was a way he could take that grief away, he would. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

Styles was suspicious when he joined the other man for dinner that evening. "Where've ye been, Matty? Ye said ye were goin' to explain things."

"I was doing somethin' for the Commodore." He'd been told several times over that he wasn't to tell anyone about the operation on Mr Kennedy. Given how small his chances were of surviving, Matthews could understand the reasoning. It didn't make it any easier to lie to his lover. They normally told each other everything. "I can't say anythin' more."

The bigger man stared at him long and hard before nodding and turning back to his meal. Matthews caught the attention of the innkeeper and signalled for a meal of his own. He fully intended to eat well before he explained things to Styles. Hopefully it would give him the patience he'd need to get things through that thick skull. He truly loved the larger man and would die for him without a second thought, but there were always times that he wished Styles was just a little smarter.

Finally, both finished their meals and went upstairs to talk. Styles kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed. "All right, Ben. What was Pellew's verdict all about?"

"It's actually pretty simple, Matty," he replied, picking up Styles' shoes and lining them up with his near the door. "Ye know that Buckland was worse in some ways than Sawyer."

Styles watched intently as Matthews poured some water into the basin and splashed it onto his face. "Aye. He's a bloody idiot. If not for Mr Hornblower an' Mr Kennedy an'--" he heaved a sigh, but continued "--Mr Bush, we'd have lost a lot more men."

"Exactly." He dried his face with the towel the innkeeper had provided and perched on the bed next to his lover. "We'd probably be dead by now if they hadn't found ways to get us out of the situations we were in. Ye saw yerself how the commodore and captains went over everythin' that'd 'appened."

Styles didn't bother to stifle a snort of laughter, remembering. "Aye, an' 'e deserved all o' it, the bloody fool."

"Perhaps." Matthews sighed, absently stroking his lover's arm. "I think the only reason 'e lasted as long as 'e did is the same one that kept us alive: there were others who made up for what 'e lacked." He smiled wryly. "Probably 'ad friends in 'igh places, too, getting' first on a ship o' the line like the _Renown_."

The other man nodded, smiling faintly. "After this voyage, though, 'e'll be lucky to get a job on shore, let alone at sea."

"Exactly." He nodded, too, glad that his lover had picked up on that at least.

The taller man shifted onto his side, studying the shorter one. "There's somethin' else on yer mind, Ben. What is it?"

"I can't tell ye, Matty." He met his lover's eyes steadily. Sometimes, Styles managed to surprise him. Though not generally observant, he'd been with Matthews long enough to be able to read him without too much effort. "It's nothin' dangerous, I promise."

After a long moment, he received a nod. "I trust ye, Ben."

"Thank ye, Matty." He leaned over to kiss him softly and that was the last either of them said for a long while.

**End**


	7. At Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Matthews and Styles during the Peace of Amiens?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during the Peace of Amiens

**At Peace**

When he first heard that peace had been declared, Ben Matthews was as glad as anyone else. England had been at war almost constantly for as long as he could remember. Then and he Matthew Styles were faced with the reality of a Royal Navy at peace. Mr Hornblower's promotion wasn't confirmed and the crew was left without a ship. Matthews and Styles took a room at an inn near the docks, so they could get to them sooner when word came that a ship was looking for crew.

Navy, Indiaman, or merchant, the type didn't matter to him. All he knew was sailing. Though, when there weren't any ships, he assisted Dr Stevens with his Portsmouth practice. Luckily, he'd happened across the surgeon while searching for something to do between potential postings. Fortunately, the doctor remembered him from when he'd help with Mr Kennedy in Kingston. He was glad enough to accept his help and pay him for it, something that he and Styles sorely needed by then, as their money was quickly running out.

This turned out to be a blessing, because they had very little luck finding a ship. They would stand in line for hours at a time, only for the books to fill up just before they got close to the front. Matthews had always had a calmer temperament than Styles, so he didn't grow frustrated with their inability to get a berth like his lover did. Of course, it didn't help that the taller man didn't have anything to do on days when there weren't any potential ships in the harbour and Matthews was helping Dr Stevens.

The inactivity and lack of income got to the younger man. He hated relying on the older man's charity. He wanted to contribute, too. So he took to stealing when he had nothing else to do. Matthews didn't find this out until a young boy came to ask Dr Stevens to attend to a couple men who'd been brawling in the market. Nodding, doctor and assistant followed the boy to the marketplace in question. Two men were unconscious on the ground near each other, being warily watched over by a couple burly men each.

Matthews didn't recognize the one man, but he _did_ recognize the other as none other than Styles. Wondering what had prompted the fight, he helped tend to both men, barely dodging a blow when his lover woke up swinging. "Easy, Styles. It's just me."

"Matty?" Styles' voice was hoarse and shame washed across his face. "Why are ye here?"

"Dr Stevens was asked to come see to ye and yer friend," he explained, helping his lover sit up. "I came along to 'elp. Why were ye fightin'?"

"'E tried to steal from me!" The shout came from the other man, who was being restrained by the doctor and one of the men who'd been keeping watch.

"Can you substantiate your claim?" Dr Stevens' question was met by more than one blank stare. He stifled a sigh and phrased his question differently. "Do you have proof?"

"Check 'is pockets," the man growled, glowering darkly at Styles.

When Matthews reached to do just that, the big man made a half-hearted attempt to stop him. The shorter man gave his lover a stern look and extracted several fruits from various pockets. "Are these yers, Styles?"

"They're mine!" The stall owner snatched them from Matthews, cradling them against his chest as carefully as a newborn child. "'E's _been_ stealing from me, but today was the first time I actually caught 'im in the act. Bloody sailor."

The last was muttered under his breath, but Styles heard it anyway and made to lunge at the man, intent on re-starting the brawl. Matthews grabbed him to stop him. "Ye're in enough trouble already, Styles. Don't make it worse."

His lover slumped in his grip, all the anger draining from him. His eyes were beseeching as he explained, "I on'y wanted to contribute, Matty."

"By stealin'?" he demanded, surprised and touched by the admission. "'ow does that help? Don't ye remember what happened to Buntin'? Ye're lucky we're on shore and not at sea."

"At least at sea, I'd be able to contribute and wouldn't _need_ to steal." Styles looked sulky, but didn't say anything else on the matter.

* * *

Since Styles had been caught stealing food, he was sent to work in a prison kitchen. It was only for three months, however, because it was his first offence. Though neither of them had said anything to each other, Matthews' look had plainly told Styles that he would still look for a ship to serve on while Styles was in prison. For his part the taller man's glance had been deeply apologetic for doing something so immensely stupid as get caught stealing.

At first, it wasn't so bad to be by himself again. He didn't have to worry about Styles taking over the bed or eating all of the food. He could get up and go to the docks earlier because his lover wouldn't be demanding his attention. There was no need to wonder what Styles was getting up to while he was busy helping Dr Stevens because he knew _exactly_ where the taller man was and what he was doing.

For all that, though, he found he was very lonely. He missed waking up wrapped up in his lover's arms. He missed the way Styles relished the food he ate, enjoying every bite. He missed the way his friend would stop by during the day to make sure he ate something. Plain and simple, he missed Styles, but there was nothing either of them could do about their separation.

The day before Styles' time in the prison kitchen was up, a familiar figure entered the room where Dr Stevens met with his patients, pleasantly surprising him. "Mr Kennedy, Sir! It's good to see ye up and walkin'!"

"Thank you, Matthews." Mr Kennedy's smile lit his face as he shook the older man's hand. "Admiral Pellew told me that you helped Dr Stevens with the surgery."

"It wasn't much, Sir," he answered with a modest smile. "Dr Stevens did most of the work."

"I'd like to express my thanks anyway," the lieutenant insisted, bright blue eyes amused. "How has the Peace been treating you?"

"I don't like to complain, Sir, but we've not 'ad much luck findin' a ship." He didn't like admitting his failure, but part of him hoped that the young man's connections with Mr Hornblower and Admiral Pellew would help to secure a berth for him and Styles.

"We?" Kennedy asked, arching a red-gold eyebrow.

"Aye, Sir." He resisted the urge to blush. "Styles an' me 'ave been lookin' together."

"Well, I happen to have it on good authority that the _Hotspur_ will soon be in need of a crew," the lieutenant informed him with a sly smile. "If you're down at the docks by six bells of the morning watch, you _may_ find the _Hotspur_ at anchor there; with a certain first lieutenant whose initials are William Bush waiting to sign on crew members."

He grinned, knuckling his forehead. "Thank ye, Sir. I'll be sure to 'ead down there tomorrow."

"I look forward to serving with you again, Mr Matthews."

"Thank ye, Sir."

* * *

As Lieutenant Kennedy had predicted, the _Hotspur_ was ready to sign on crew members early the next morning, overseen by William Bush. He was surprised to see Matthews, but quickly signed him on as Bo'sun. "I'm a little surprised Styles isn't here. You two are rarely found apart."

"'E'll be along later, Sir." Matthews assured him, hoping Styles would be back at the rooms when he returned to get his dunnage and settle their debt with the innkeeper.

Mr Bush nodded, but said nothing else. "Return by the first bell of the afternoon watch, ready to assume your duties."

"Aye-aye, Sir." He knuckled his forehead and departed for the inn with a spring in his step. It felt good to have a ship again.

He passed Mr Kennedy on his way and knuckled his forehead. The second lieutenant smiled and acknowledged the gesture. "Welcome aboard, Mr Matthews."

"Thank ye, Sir." He stopped by Dr Stevens' rooms to let him know that he'd finally found a ship to serve.

"Congratulations, Mr Matthews." The doctor's voice was sincere as he shook the seaman's hand. "I hope you won't forget what you've learned here."

He shook his head, unable to stop smiling. "No, Sir. I'll remember."

"I'm glad to hear it." The other man turned away for a moment and produced a sleek case, holding it out to Matthews. "Here, take this."

The bos'un didn't reach for it just yet. "What is it, Sir?"

"It's a case I put together with all the tools and medicines you might need," Dr Stevens explained, opening it so Matthews could see inside and trust that he was telling the truth. "You can't be called a surgeon, but you're as good as one now."

He accepted the case with reverence, touched and honoured by the doctor's words. "Thank ye very much, Doctor."

"Do your duty and look after the men under your care, Matthews." Dr Stevens' voice was a little shaky, but he cleared his throat and it steadied. "Don't forget that your first priority as a medical man is to save lives."

Matthews nodded, remembering that Dr Harman's last words to him had been almost the same. "I will remember, Sir."

"Good. Take care, Matthews." The doctor shook his hand one last time and he left, part of him regretting that he had to leave the man who'd added so much to his knowledge of medicine.

Cradling the case, he finally returned to the inn, smiling nervously when he saw that Styles was on the bed. "It's good to see ye, Matty."

"'Ello, Ben." Styles sat up and gave his lover a sly smile. "I've missed ye."

Forgetting about the _Hotspur_ for the moment, Matthews set the case aside and crossed the room to kiss Styles fiercely. It was returned with equal warmth and he almost melted against the other man. He'd missed this so much and now there was a good chance that he was going to be without his lover's company for who knew how long. Between that knowledge and the fact that they hadn't seen each other for three months, their intimacy was fierce and overwhelming.

Afterwards, Matthews pressed close to Styles' side, absently playing with the necklace he'd bought for the man while they were in Kingston. It was no more than a seashell on a leather thong, but it held a wealth of meaning for both of them. The shorter man wore a matching necklace that the taller man had bought for him the next day. Most people saw them as harmless trinkets, but the lovers saw them as symbols of their devotion and affection for each other.

What neither had mentioned when they'd given the necklaces to each other was that they would be constant reminders of their lover if they should be parted for some reason. A parting would be upon them soon, if Styles wasn't able to sign on as crew on the _Hotspur_.

Proving that he _did_ notice things, despite the thickness of his head, Styles asked, "Ben? Are ye all righ'?"

He sighed, sitting up to meet his lover's eyes. There was no point in keeping the truth from him. "Matt, I've finally been signed on to a ship. I report for duty soon."

"Oh." Styles looked greatly disappointed as he withdrew his arms from around Matthews and looked away. "I see."

"It's the _Hotspur_ , under Mr Hornblower's command," he explained quickly, catching a large hand in both of his. "I'm sure 'e'd find a way to sign ye on if ye asked."

The big man looked sceptical, but he didn't pull his hand out of the smaller man's grip. "Ye think 'e will?"

"Even if 'e doesn't, Mr Kennedy could probably think of somethin'," he reminded Styles, rising and beginning to wash up.

The bed creaked when Styles got up to wash and dress as well. "Aye, Mr Kennedy always was a resourceful one."

"Exactly." He finished dressing and combed his fingers through his hair. "Ye'll 'ave to deal with Mr Bush, too."

The taller man groaned, but it seemed to be more out of habit than because he truly disliked the idea of serving with Lieutenant Bush. That suspicion was proved correct when Styles commented, "I'd put up with anythin' for a chance to be at sea again."

"I thought so." He hid a smile, remembering how determined his lover had been to desert when he'd first been impressed.

They packed what few possessions they had and went downstairs to settle with the innkeeper. Matthews paid the last of the money they owed and thanked the woman for her hospitality. That done, they left for the docks. He reported to Mr Kennedy, who was apparently the officer of the watch. "Welcome aboard, Mr Matthews, Mr Styles."

"Thank ye, Sir." Matthews knuckled his forehead. "We was hopin', Sir, that there might be a position for Styles."

The second lieutenant looked apologetic. "I'm afraid there isn't one, unless you'd like to serve as the captain's steward. Mr Hornblower hasn't found one yet."

"I've been workin' in kitchens these last three months, Sir," the tall man answered quickly.

Matthews cleared his throat to hide a wince as Mr Kennedy raised an eyebrow. "I can mention the idea to the captain and let you know what he says."

"There's no need, Mr Kennedy." The captain's voice rang out behind them and all of them snapped to attention. "What's the matter?"

The second lieutenant turned to address his captain. "Mr Styles says he can cook, Sir. I thought you might want to take him on as your steward."

"Indeed?" Captain Hornblower eyed his friend thoughtfully, and then turned to Styles, dark eyes appraising. Matthews was pretty sure he knew the big man wasn't that good a cook, but he hoped the fact that they'd served together before would make him decide in the other man's favour. "Very well, we can try you out as the steward for this voyage and see how things stand when we return. Is that clear?"

Styles nodded, knuckling his forehead. "Aye-aye, Sir."

"Welcome aboard, Mr Styles."

"Thank you, Sir."

* * *

They were both kept busy for the next several hours, preparing the ship to set out. As Bo'sun and Steward, they were quartered together. He doubted they'd have any chance for more than a few quiet words together. It was a small ship and the walls were very thin. Still, the simple fact that they would be sharing was an immense relief to Matthews.

Then, finally, everything was ready and they set sail. It was such a pleasure to finally be at sea again. He'd forgotten how much he'd enjoyed it while ashore, but it all came rushing back as the wind filled the sails and blew his hair back from his face. He was home again, with Styles right beside him. Almost.

About an hour after they'd set sail, they exercised the guns for the first time. Mr Orrock, a midshipman he'd never heard of before, clearly had experience as an officer because he bellowed out nice and loud, "Cast loose!"

"Cast loose." John Hammond, on the other hand, either had no experience at all, or didn't know how to make himself heard on the gun deck.

In either case, the midshipman wouldn't have been heard in the din of battle, so Matthews took it upon himself to make sure the command wasn't missed. "Cast loose! Come on!" While the men did as they were told, he leaned in to give the lad advice he'd given many green midshipmen over the years: "Best bawl your lungs out, Mr Hammond, Sir. You won't be 'eard otherwise."

As they waited for the next command, someone cleared their throat behind them. He was pretty sure he knew who it was without them speaking. "'Ow d'ye make coffee?"

"Do I look like a cook?" He gave his lover an annoyed and frustrated look, even as he brushed his hand against the larger man's to let him know that he appreciated the fact that he was even there to ask such a question. "Ye and yer big mouth!"

Styles left then, presumably to figure out how to make coffee, and they were given the command to run out their guns. This time Hammond tried to yell, but his voice cracked on the command. "Run out!"

"Run out yer guns! Jump to it!" He resigned himself to repeating the commands until the lad figured out how to make himself heard. Part of him wished he hadn't been assigned to the newest midshipman, but he understood the reason for it. He was probably the oldest crewmember, so he was the best one to help a brand new officer learn how to command the men. Plus, as bo'sun, he could keep the men from disrespecting the boy for his youth and inexperience. He'd done as much for Mr Hornblower ten years before and sort of the same for Mr Kennedy in France. More recently, he'd kept an eye out for Mr Wellard as much as he could on the _Renown_. The young man was now the senior officer of the midshipman's mess. He hoped he could do as much good for Mr Hammond. 

Unfortunately, his hint when the captain asked where the middie was supposed to go to get the lanterns wasn't subtle enough. Though Captain Hornblower sounded displeased, Matthews was sure he saw a glint of amusement when he exchanged glances with his lieutenants. Mr Bush spoke up at the glance, "Rest assured, Sir, Mr Hammond will be _warmly_ reminded of his duties."

"I won't have to speak to you again, will I, Mr Hammond?" Any trace of amusement was gone as the captain spoke sternly to the midshipman.

Though he looked discouraged and unhappy, the young man shook his head and they carried on. As they put everything back in order, Matthews noticed out of the corner of his eye as first Mr Orrock, and then Mr Wellard walked over to speak with their fellow middie. Whatever they said seemed to comfort the lad, because he looked a little happier afterwards. He was pleased to see the midshipmen pulling together like that. He'd seen more than one ship disrupted because the middies were busy fighting amongst themselves, or cowering in fear from one of their number. This voyage looked like it was going to be a good one.

* * *

One day, when only open water could be seen around them, a fire was discovered in the galley. That was one the few times in his life that Matthews felt very real fear. It was a sailor's worst nightmare. If any flame got near the gunpowder, the entire ship and crew would be lost in the resulting explosion. He was glad for Captain Hornblower's quick thinking and action in putting out the fire. Then he saw the stove and felt his heart freeze in his chest. The doors had been left wide open. It meant that Styles was most likely responsible for the fire. Unless someone else came forward, he would have to flog his lover.

Styles was taken into custody while the captain conferred with his lieutenants and the French major--Côtard was his name--on what to do about the situation. The steward was then summoned to the captain's cabin for questioning. Much as he would have liked to have been there, only the senior officers were present. After Styles was taken back to the brig, the four men continued to talk for several more minutes. When they emerged, the grim looks on their faces did not bode well for Styles. Mr Kennedy approached the bo'sun, who'd been lingering nearby. "You'll have to get the cat, Matthews."

"'E's bein' punished, Sir?" He couldn't quite hide the dismay he felt at the thought.

"I'm sorry, but there's no one else." The lieutenant's bright blue eyes were sincerely apologetic as they met Matthews'. "The captain doesn't like the idea, but this incident can't go unpunished. It's too serious an offence."

Reluctantly, he nodded. "I understand, Sir. I know Styles, though. 'E would never do somethin' that stupid, no matter 'ow thick'eaded 'e can be at times."

"I believe you, Matthews and I believe Styles." Mr Kennedy was sincere as he briefly squeezed the bo'sun's shoulder.

Matthews nodded, comforted by the gesture. "Thank ye, Sir. I'll go get the cat now."

* * *

"All hands to witness punishment!" He'd always dreaded that command in the past, but none more so than this day. Styles was the one being escorted to the grating and he, Matthews was the one waiting to carry out his punishment. When their eyes met, he tried to convey in that single glance that he really didn't want to do this, but it was his duty. His lover nodded slightly before he turned to face the captain.

There was no trace of the unsteady, seasick midshipman they'd met and teased at Spithead all those years ago in the stern captain who gazed down at them, his lieutenants on either side of him like sentinels. "Well, Styles. You have endangered His Majesty's ship and the lives of your fellows. What do you have to say?"

"It wasn't me, Sir." Matthews kept his eyes on the captain, afraid of what he would do if he looked at his lover.

"Does anyone have anything to say on his behalf?" Captain Hornblower addressed the assembled crew. No one said a word, not even Matthews. He couldn't very well say that Styles may be a horrible cook, but he at least has the sense to at least secure the stove. The crew would think he was trying to avoid flogging the steward, and then they would wonder why. After a few moments, the captain spoke again, perhaps hoping to prod someone into speaking. "If he is found to have acted maliciously, the Articles of War provide for only one sentence. Death."

That one word chilled his blood. He doubted Styles would be hung without further proof, but the simple idea of losing his lover permanently made him feel a little better about flogging him. Of course, he'd still rather not flog him at all.

"I believe it may have been an accident, Sir." Of all people to speak on Styles' behalf, Mr Bush did. The big man had never really gotten along with the first lieutenant, but it seemed they at least had a grudging respect for each other now. "He was negligent, not malicious."

"I agree with Mr Bush, Sir." Mr Kennedy was the one Matthews had expected to speak up for Styles. "It's common sense to secure a live flame aboard ship. He's served the Crown too long to make such a mistake."

The captain nodded, his jaw working briefly before he gave the command. "Very well. Seize him up."

"Hats off!" The first lieutenant almost snapped the order and Matthews reluctantly removed his hat, setting it next to the red silk bag that contained the cat. He'd never used the one aboard the _Renown_ and he'd hoped to never have to use this one.

While Captain Hornblower read out the final article of war, Matthews and Styles set themselves for the coming punishment: "Article XXXVI. All other crimes not capital committed by any person or persons in the fleet, which are not mentioned in this act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted shall be punished according to the laws and customs used at sea." He had put it off for as long as possible, but finally he withdrew the cat, carefully shaking it out. "Two dozen, Mr Matthews."

Nodding, he set himself, gritted his teeth, and snapped his arm back then forward, almost flinching when the lash of the whip bit into his lover's back. Styles gasped, but didn't make any other sound. Swallowing, he repeated the motion again and again. He steeled himself the first time a diagonal line of blood appeared. All he could hear was the whistle of the cat through the air, the crack as it hit flesh, and the gasp of pain from Styles that followed each stroke. All he could see was that broad back, covered with diagonal lines of blood now. If he hadn't been keeping count in his head, he'd have done more than the two dozen lashes. He was greatly relieved when he was finally able to stop, hardly aware that his arm was sore, focusing more on the blood covering his lover's broad back. He was glad he didn't have to speak. He didn't think he could have found his voice.

"Two dozen, Sir." Instead, it was the first lieutenant's duty to report the end of the punishment.

After a brief pause, Captain Hornblower made the standard reply. "Take him down, Mr Bush."

"Take him down!" The moment Styles was released, he slumped to his knees, too weak to remain standing, groaning with relief and pain.

The captain's voice was steady as he finished his part. "Thank you, Mr Bush, dismiss all hands."

"All hands, dismiss!" Dismissed, the crew began to disperse. Matthews was vaguely aware of Mr Hammond making for the head, but he pushed the midshipman from his mind for the moment. His main concern was Styles.

He started forward, intending to offer his lover a hand up, but stopped when he noticed that Captain Hornblower had stopped on his way to his cabin to give Styles a look that was equal parts disappointment and regret. Understanding the look, the big man answered the silent question: "I didn't do it, Sir."

"I believe ye, Styles," Matthews finally reached his lover's side after the captain left and helped him to his feet, making sure he was steady before letting go of him. "Can ye get to yer hammock on yer own? I still have duties to take care of.

Before the steward could answer, Thomas Wolfe, the cox'n, appeared on Styles' other side. "I'll see 'e gets there, Mr Matthews, don't ye worry."

He eyed the Irishman with suspicion, but couldn't think of a good reason not to believe him. "All righ'. Thank ye, Wolfe."

"Don' mention it." Nodding, the two men slowly made their way to the quarters Styles shared with Matthews. Shaking his head, the bo'sun left to clean the cat and put it away.

* * *

When he finished that, he returned to his quarters. He found Styles sprawled on his stomach in his hammock, big hands gripping the canvas tightly. Wincing in sympathy, Matthews set down the bowl of water and flannel he'd gotten from the galley. "Be glad it was only two dozen, Styles, not three or four."

"Or swingin' from the yardarm," the big man added darkly, wincing as the smaller man cleaned away the blood with careful movements.

He stifled a shudder at the thought. "'e'd never sentenced ye to that without proof that ye'd deliberately left the stove open like that."

"I _never_ left it open, Matty." Styles' temper flared as he started to roll onto his side. He gave a pained gasp and rolled back onto his stomach.

He risked stroking his lover's arm soothingly as he finished cleaning away the blood. "I know, ye're not _that_ stupid, Styles. But there's no way to prove it wasn't ye. That's where _ye_ work. Who else would even need to be _near_ the stove except ye?"

"No one, but Mr Bush and Wolfe were both by it earlier today." Styles gasped as Matthews began to spread some salve onto the wounds to help them heal. "Either of them could'a left it open like that."

The bo'sun shook his head, keeping his touch as light as he could as he continued to spread the salve. "Not Mr Bush. 'E wouldn't do somethin' like that."

"That leaves Wolfe, but why would 'e want to burn the ship?" Styles stifled a groan as Matthews spread salve over a particularly deep wound. "'E'd 'ave been killed if the captain 'adn't been so quick with the pump."

He sighed softly and finished spreading the salve. "I can't answer that, Styles. We'll probably never know who it was."

"Probably." He was pleased to note that Styles had relaxed now that the salve had taken away much of the pain. "Do ye 'ave laudanum?"

Matthews nodded, plucking up the dose he'd already poured for his lover. "This'll 'elp ye sleep off the worst of the pain."

"Thanks, Matty." Styles' voice was low, but sincere as he took the drug gratefully.

He accepted the empty cup and set it aside for the moment. "I wish ye didn't need it at all."

"If it 'adn't'a been ye, it'd'a been someone else," the bigger man reminded him. "I'd rather it was ye. I know ye didn't mean it."

The smaller man gave a forceful nod. "'Course I didn't, but _someone_ needed to be punished."

"It was me 'cause I'm the steward." Styles stifled a yawn.

Matthews helped him to lie down and carefully pulled the blanket over his lover. "Sleep, Matt. Ye'll be fine."

"G'night, Ben."

**End**


	8. Rough Seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthews and Styles have a little trouble with Wolfe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during _Loyalty_.

**Rough Seas**

Ben Matthews never thought he'd see the day when he rendered passing honours to a Frog ship, but that was exactly what happened a few days after he'd had to flog Styles. They met the _Loire_ , a French ship, off the coast of Brest. Since they were still supposedly at peace with France, they forced themselves to be civil rather than attack, as was their first instinct. Though, a few hours later, they were firing on the ship they had saluted just that morning. Mr Hammond, who'd been improving with each gun drill they'd done since the voyage started, froze when they were told to run out their guns. Matthews tried to jolly him into taking command: "Run out, Mr Hammond!" When that didn't work, he cuffed the lad on the shoulder. "Come on, Sir! Unless ye want to get yer leg blown off!" 

Giving up on him for the moment, he just took over commanding the gun crew. He'd seen this happen before. Live gun practice was one thing. Faced with an actual opponent, with the fact that it was now kill or be killed, some midshipmen froze. It seemed John Hammond was one of them. What finally snapped the lad out of his daze was having someone's blood splatter him. Then he panicked, screaming his head off. Wolfe tried to shut him up, but gave up on after barely a moment. So Matthews took over, "Come on, ye're all righ'! It's not yer blood, Sir!" 

"What is it, Matthews?" The fuss had obviously attracted Captain Hornblower's attention. 

He quickly covered Mr Hammond's mouth to stifle his cries and called back, "It's all under control, Sir!" The captain nodded and turned his attention to other matters. Returning his attention to the midshipman, who'd calmed down by now, he told him sternly, "One more peep out o' ye, an' no one can save ye. Ye'll be goin' over the side wit' that lot." He indicated the dead bodies being pulled out of the way so live men could take their places at the guns. "Do ye understand?" He almost shook the lad. "Do ye understand?!" 

The response he received was Mr Hammond throwing up all over him. Stifling a sigh, he released the middie's jacket and returned to his duties. He would clean himself up later. Shortly afterwards, someone shot down the _Loire_ 's main mast and they started for home. After he'd changed his shirt, he set to work doing what he could for the wounded. Then the captain read the service for the men who hadn't survived. After that, Matthews was busy helping with repairs. 

By the time he and Styles had a quiet moment to themselves, the first watch had started and they were both ready for sleep. When his lover took off his waistcoat, Matthews was dismayed to notice several bloodstains on the material. Rather than comment on it directly, he quietly asked, "'Ow's yer back feelin', Styles?" 

"A li'l sore," the big man admitted, glancing at the smaller man over his shoulder. "Could ye take a look at it?" 

"Certainly." He carefully lifted the back of Styles' shirt to examine the wounds. They were scabbed over for the most part, but a few had opened, probably due to whatever the steward had been doing during the battle and the clean-up afterwards. "Looks good mostly, but a couple o' these 'ave opened up again. If ye'll take yer shirt off and lay down, I'll put some more salve on for ye." 

"Thanks, Matty." The big man did as Matthews asked, sighing as he relaxed onto his stomach. 

"No problem." He retrieved the salve and began spreading it over the wounds. "What were ye doin', that ye managed to open these up?" 

The only sign that the salve stung at all was the way Styles' big hands clenched on the edge of the hammock. "I was on the gun deck, helpin' to fire the guns." There was a note of pride in his voice as he added. "I fired the shot that took down the Frogs' main mast." 

"Good man." Matthews slapped Styles' shoulder to add emphasis to his compliment. "As long as ye don't do anythin' more to make these worse, it shouldn't take much longer for 'em to heal." 

The steward nodded, shifting onto his side while the bo'sun put the salve away. "I'm glad we're bot' 'ere, Ben." 

"I am, too, Matt." He risked kissing his lover softly before turning to slip into his own hammock. 

Neither noticed that the door had opened a crack and that someone had seen their kiss.

* * *

When they finally reached England, Matthews took Styles to see Dr Stevens. After looking over the steward's back, the surgeon complimented the bo'sun on his work. "He'll always have scars, but they're not as bad as some cases I've seen."

"Thank ye, Sir." He couldn't quite keep his cheeks from growing a little warm at the doctor's comment. Knowing he was doing the right thing and having it confirmed were two different things entirely. 

As Styles pulled his shirt and waistcoat down, the doctor added, "You're lucky I was here when you came by. Admiral Pellew will be shipping out soon and I'll be going with him as his ship's surgeon. I doubt this peace will last much longer." 

"We understand, Sir." Matthews gave Styles a look that warned him not to say anything about their engagement with the _Loire_. "Thank ye for all yer help." 

Dr Stevens shook each of their hands in turn. "Take care on your next voyage." 

Ye, too, Sir." They left the office together and made their way to the inn where they'd taken a room together, as usual. 

Thomas Wolfe was waiting for them in the dining room. He raised his tankard to them and took a deep draught. Exchanging a glance with Styles, Matthews led the way over to the Irishman's table. "This is a bit o' a surprise, Wolfe." 

"What do ye want?" Styles added rudely. Somehow, the big man had convinced himself that the cox'n was the reason he'd been flogged. 

Matthews kicked his lover under the table. He may not like Wolfe, but that was no reason to be rude. For his part, the Irishman simply smirked. "Is that any way to treat yer beloved shipmate, Styles? 'Specially after th' landlady was kind enough to change our room to one with two beds so we can all talk in private." 

"What?" He stared at the cox'n in both surprise and dismay, though he tried not to let the dismay show. He had a feeling that was _exactly_ what Wolfe wanted. 

From the way the other man's smirk widened, some of the dismay had shown anyway. "Aye, she was more than 'appy to rent th' larger room 'stead o' th' little one ye'd originally requested." 

"Why?" Styles asked, his voice more of a growl as he glared at the Irishman. Matthews casually shifted in his seat, brushing his leg against the larger man's, trying to calm him. 

Instead of answering, the cox'n simply raised his hand to catch the serving girl's attention. "Bring pints for all o' us, me good lass." 

"Aye, Sir." She smiled coyly, shrieking good-naturedly when he lightly smacked her rear. 

Much to their frustration, the black-haired man refused to answer their questions until they'd eaten and gone up to their room, closing and locking the door behind them. "Enough games, Wolfe. What are ye doin' 'ere?" 

"It's quite simple, _Ben_." The cox'n was no longer smirking, but Matthews liked the smug look on his face even less. "I know what ye two are." 

"What would that be?" Beside him, Styles folded his arms across his broad chest. "Ye could simply mean I'm a bo'sun and Styles 'ere is a steward." 

Wolfe rolled his eyes and indicated them as a whole. "I know ye two are sodomites." 

"Even if it _were_ true, what proof do ye have?" Matthews glanced at Styles, reading in his eyes the same worry he was feeling. 

The smug look remained on the Irishman's face. "On'y what I've seen wit' me own eyes, but not ev'ry cap'n needs proof to 'ang men for sodomy." 

"What do ye want from us, then?" Matthews demanded, liking the cox'n less and less. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw Styles give him a startled glance. "What do ye mean, Matty?" 

"'E didn't 'ave to come tell us what 'e knows, Styles," he explained, not looking away from Wolfe. "'E could've gone to the cap'n right away an' we wouldn't've known until the cap'n questioned us about it. That 'e 'asn't means 'e probably wants somethin' from us in exchange for _not_ goin' to the cap'n." 

The Irishman lightly applauded, as if he was impressed. "Very good, _Ben_. I can see why ye've lasted so long in th' service." He jerked his head in Styles' direction. "I'm not so sure 'bout that one, though. Leavin' th' stove open like that an' all." He shook his head with mock sadness. 

"Stop stallin' and tell us what ye want." Styles' hands were clenched into fists at his sides now. The galley fire was a rather sore subject for him. 

The cox'n remained utterly calm despite the fact that Styles was both taller and broader than him. "It's simple. If ye don' wan' me to tell th' cap'n 'bout ye bein' sodomites, ye'll do whatever I tell ye." 

"Like what, for example?" Matthews gave his lover a warning glance to keep him from saying anything. Now was not a good time to irritate the other man. 

Wolfe wandered over to peer out the window. "Oh, let's say th' cap'n wants volunteers for a mission. Ye two would be among th' first." 

"That's not so bad." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the Irishman. "Is there anythin' else?" 

Styles grabbed the smaller man's shoulder, hissing in his ear. "Don' give 'im ideas, Ben!" 

"Thank ye for remindin' me." The cox'n turned to face them, looking pointedly at Styles' hand. "Ye're not allowed to touch each other in any way, unless I say ye can." 

The big hand tightened almost painfully on his shoulder, as if to deny the command. He winced and reached up to pat his lover's hand. Quietly, he told him, "Ye're hurtin' me, Styles." 

"Sorry, Matty." Slowly, Styles released his lover's shoulder, his hand lingering for several moments before it withdrew completely. He couldn't quite stifle a sigh of relief. Sometimes, the big man just didn't know his own strength. 

Wolfe nodded, the smirk back on his face. "If ye _do_ touch, I'll go to th' cap'n." 

"Why are ye doin' this?" He wondered if they had done anything to offend the Irishman in the past that he was punishing them for now. 

The cox'n gave an idle shrug. "Because I can. Isn't that reason enou'?" 

"It's no good askin', Matty," Styles murmured in his ear. "'E'll never give a proper answer." 

A black eyebrow quirked up. "Very good, Styles." 

Ignoring Styles' sigh of annoyance, he asked Wolfe, "What abou' tonight? Are ye _really_ goin' to share wit' us?" 

"Aye, but not right away." He started for the door. "I'll be back in about an hour. Ye'd best enjoy yerselves while ye can." 

With that, he was gone. Styles grabbed the pitcher from the washstand, ready to throw it at the closed door. Matthews grabbed his arm to stop him. "Don', Matt. Ye'll on'y break it, an' then we'd 'ave to pay for it." 

"Damn Irish bastard." Despite this, the big man did put the pitcher down. 

He rested his hand on Styles' arm. "C'mon. 'E gave us time alone and I can think o' better things to do with it than mutter under me breath." 

Grinning, Styles accepted the invitation in Matthews' eyes and leaned down to kiss him warmly.

* * *

Wolfe returned when he said he would to find the bo'sun and steward asleep in separate beds. Since Matthews was smaller, the cox'n decided to share with him. He was gone the next morning before they woke. They took advantage of his absence for one last time together before they were forced away from each other. They reported to Lieutenant Bush when they arrived at the ship. "I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Mr Styles."

"Sir?" The big man glanced at Matthews, panic flashing briefly in his eyes. The only bad news they could think of was that Styles wouldn't be allowed to continue as Captain Hornblower's steward any longer. 

The lieutenant's face was blank, completely devoid of emotion. "The captain decided not to keep you on as his steward. He has found someone better suited to the task." 

"Aye, Sir." The broad shoulders slumped and Matthews felt as if his heart had frozen completely. Although being unable to touch his lover would have been horrible, being completely separated from him was even worse. 

Styles would have turned to leave the quarterdeck completely, but he hadn't been dismissed yet. Glancing at Lieutenant Bush, Matthews wondered if he'd imagined the glint of mischief in those pale blue eyes before he spoke again. "Due to the number of men who were lost in the action against the _Loire_ , as well as your skill in shooting down their main mast, the captain decided to take you on as an Able Seaman instead." 

"Sir?" The former steward looked carefully at the first lieutenant, as if he was afraid to hope. Matthews' heart was beating quickly in his chest at the thought that Styles would still be serving on the _Hotspur_ after all! 

Smiling faintly, Lieutenant Bush nodded. "You're still a member of the crew, Mr Styles. Only your duties have changed." 

"Thank ye, Sir." Styles was grinning broadly, obviously relieved. 

They were dismissed shortly afterwards and descended belowdecks. "That was awfully good o' the cap'n, to keep ye on." 

"I know. I can hardly believe it." The big man turned to his lover and they simply looked at each other for several moments, conveying everything they felt in that simple glance: relief, pleasure, delight, and joy. Then they went their separate ways to settle in.

* * *

As he'd expected, being so close to Styles without any physical contact with him was very painful. They still talked in the course of their duties, but Matthews had to force himself not to reach out and touch his lover. He took to keeping his hands clasped behind his back when they were near each other. He supposed this was what Wolfe had intended when he'd made the demand. He'd never take that ability for granted again. It was a way to connect with his lover without words. Now they could only rely on looks and carefully-worded sentences. So much more could be said with a simple touch.

When they were told about the mission ashore and Captain Hornblower asked for volunteers, Wolfe caught Matthews' eye, raising a black eyebrow. Nodding, he volunteered, which he would have done anyway, and Styles did as well, just moments later. They were soon busy with preparations for disembarking and rowing to shore. Then he had to stay on the beach while Styles went with the captain and the other members of the shore party to blow up the semaphore tower. It was easy enough to ignore his worries about Styles' safety when he was busy directing the marines to set up a defense. Then they finished and had nothing else to do except wait for the shore party to come back. 

They heard someone coming and he gave the order for the marines to present, ready to fire if the person coming was an enemy. He peered through the grey light of pre-dawn, trying to make out the single figure running towards them. It was Mr Hammond, looking rather panicky. "Hold your fire!" As the marines lowered their weapons, the middie reached the barrier they'd constructed. "Where's the cap'n, Sir?" 

"They've been cut off," Mr Hammond managed to gasp out, trying to catch his breath. He must have been running for a good distance. 

"Give me six men, tell 'em to fix bayonets." His first instinct was to go and support the captain and the others. Only part of that instinct stemmed from the need to do what he could to keep his lover alive. 

"There's a company of soldiers heading up there, with more on the way." Mr Hammond objected to the order, his voice gaining in certainty and authority now that he'd caught his breath. 

He understood the middie's concern, but they had a duty to their shipmates. "We must do what we can, Sir." 

"No, no, we must withdraw!" Finally, he learned to take command, but Matthews suspected it stemmed more from panic at the thought of danger so near than anything else. "If we stay on this beach, we'll be cut down where we stand." 

Regardless of the lad finally finding his backbone, he wasn't going to leave without his lover. Rather than saying that, though, he fell back on loyalty to his commanding officer. "We can't leave without the cap'n, Sir." 

"For God's sake, Matthews, the captain's been cut off!" He could see the panic in Mr Hammond's eyes now at the delay. He was thinking only of his own safety. "Get the men into the boats." 

The bos'un hadn't served in His Majesty's Navy for twenty years for nothing. He knew how to work around commands he didn't like. "Not without an order, Sir." 

"Those _are_ his orders, damn you!" The middie's panic was more obvious now, but he'd stumbled on the one thing that would end the argument. That the order supposedly came from the captain (something Matthews doubted, but couldn't prove) meant they had no choice. They'd have to return to the ship without the shore party.

* * *

Matthews almost felt sorry for Mr Hammond when Mr Bush questioned him closely about the orders the captain had supposedly given, but he was too worried about Styles to be sympathetic towards the young man. Even as they were preparing for the coming battle, he didn't have time to mollycoddle the lad. He made it clear enough that he didn't believe what the midshipman had reported. He told Mr Hammond that Captain Hornblower had given him a chance to prove himself, just as he had for many others. "And nobody's ever let 'im down. Until now." He paused, letting that sink in. "If that's all ye've got to say, Sir, I've got work to do."

He could only hope what he said had been enough to get through the middie. The fact that Mr Hammond had volunteered to go ashore with Mr Bush seemed to indicate as much. Matthews was too focused on getting ashore to see that Styles was all right. They arrived not a moment too soon, just in time to keep their shipmates from being executed. His heart was in his throat at the sight of all those muskets aimed at his lover. At a word from Lieutenant Bush, they charged forward to engage the Frogs who'd been threatening their captain. He fought his way through the Frogs to find his lover in the midst of flogging Thomas Wolfe--wearing a Frog uniform--with his belt, not bothering to watch his back at all. "C'mon ye daft bugger! Ye'll get yerself killed!" 

The battle ended shortly after that and he hurried to the jolly boats to retrieve the case Dr Stevens had given him, beginning to tend to the wounded as the Frogs' weapons were gathered up. One of the first he found was young Mr Hammond. He'd been shot in the stomach, just like Lieutenant Kennedy had been. "Is there anythin' I can do to help, Mr Matthews?" 

"'Old Mr 'ammond still, Sir, this is goin' to 'urt," he told Mr Orrock, opening his case to retrieve the instruments he would need, remembering which had been used when he assisted with Mr Kennedy's surgery back in Kingston. 

"Right." The Irish middie eased his friend into his lap and held him securely. 

"Not too tight, Sir." He unbuttoned Mr Hammond's waistcoat and shirt, carefully probing the wound, ignoring the pained gasps from his patient. He found the bullet and eased it out, relieved to find that it had stayed in one piece. That meant that he could sew up the wound. The sound of a shot behind him almost made him drop the bullet, though. Rather than look to see what had happened, Matthews busied himself sewing up the wound and bandaging it. 

The captain's voice hardly disturbed him. "Well, Matthews?" 

"Provided 'e's kept quiet and still, 'e should mend nicely, Sir," the bos'un reported, never pausing in his work. "Though it might be good to 'ave a proper surgeon look 'im over." 

Captain Hornblower nodded, sounding very tired. "I'll see what I can arrange." He turned away to speak with Mr Bush, who'd just finished rounding up the last of the prisoners. 

"Thank ye for yer assistance, Sir." He addressed the comment to Mr Orrock, who was still holding Mr Hammond. 

The lad glanced at Matthews and nodded, rising to leave, his long, slender hand briefly brushing the younger middie's dark curls. As he finished bandaging Mr Hammond, Matthews wondered if there was something about black curls that others found attractive. Pushing that thought aside, he got up to see to the others who'd been injured.

* * *

By the time he finished, his hands and lower arms were streaked with dried blood, his shirt and trousers badly stained with it. He sighed and rubbed half-heartedly at his arm. The blood barely flaked off. _Time for a swim..._ Choosing a deserted stretch of beach, he stripped off his clothes, waded out into the surf, and washed off with pleasure. It had been too long since he'd swum at all. When he finally erns merged from the surf, Styles was waiting by his clothes, his face impassive though Matthews noticed the appreciation in the big man's eyes as he noticed the smaller man's nudity. _Not much to look at any more, but if 'e likes what 'e sees, who am I to argue?_ "Styles. What are ye doin' here?"

"We've done everythin' we can for now," his lover explained as he used his relatively clean waistcoat to towel himself dry. "The cap'n's gone to make 'is report to the Admiral and receive 'is new orders."

Matthews nodded, pulling on his clothes with reluctance. If he'd had a change of clothes with him, he'd have put those on. "All right, then. That gives me a chance to ask ye this: why were ye flogging Wolfe and why was 'e wearin' a Frog uniform?"

"Turns out Wolfe was the one who'd left the stove open." Though Styles' voice was studiously casual, there was a wealth of emotion in that single sentence: anger at Wolfe for leaving the stove open and resentment that he'd been the one to be punished for it. "Apparently, 'e'd been workin' for Boney in 'opes o' 'avin' a free Ireland an' 'e was supposed to stop our gettin' to Brest."

He stretched out on his back, gazing up at the sky. "Is 'e in custody?"

"Nah." Styles stretched out on his back beside him, big hand brushing against his side. "Wit' all the confusion and everythin', 'e managed to slip away. Pity. Would've liked to 'ave given 'im a few more licks. 'E deserved them."

The bo'sun stifled a chuckle, nudging Styles' arm with his. "Ye 'ad yer chance. Ye probably won't get another."

"Ye're probably right." The taller man sighed softly. "The cap'n apologized for floggin' me when 'e told us that Wolfe was the one who'd left the stove open."

He glanced curiously at his lover. "What did ye say?"

"Told 'im it was all right'. I knew 'e didn't mean it personally." Styles turned his head to meet Matthews' gaze. "Just like I knew _ye_ didn't mean it personally when ye was floggin' me."

"I could never mean it personally, Matt," he whispered, his eyes stinging with delayed relief that the big man had survived.

Styles nodded, catching Matthews' smaller hand in his and squeezing gently. "I know, Ben."

They jumped to their feet a moment later when someone cleared his throat behind them. "Dr Stevens! What brings ye 'ere?"

"I spoke with Captain Hornblower when he arrived on the Admiral's ship to make his preliminary report," the surgeon explained, his face impassive as the two ratings brushed sand off themselves. "He indicated that you'd tended to the wounded, but wanted a proper surgeon to look the men over?"

Matthews nodded, glad for the chance to get a second opinion. "Aye, Sir. If ye'll come with me?"

"Certainly, Mr Matthews." The doctor followed him to where the injured were waiting to be transported to the ship. For the most part, he confirmed the bo'sun's work after a brief examination of the injuries. Then they came to the two men who hadn't survived. These men were examined more carefully. Finally, the surgeon turned to his pupil. "Sometimes, you just can't save a man. You have to remind yourself that they _chose_ to fight. They knew the risks, but they fought anyway. Let them have the nobility of dying in battle."

He knuckled his forehead, feeling very solemn. "Aye, Sir. Thank ye."

"Not at all, Mr Matthews."

* * *

Once they were underway, Matthews and Styles were summoned to the captain's cabin. On either side of the captain were his two lieutenants. Of the three, only Mr Kennedy looked relaxed at all. His heart beating painfully in his chest, he dreaded what Captain Hornblower would say. "While I was in Wolfe's company, he made an interesting claim against you two." Matthews didn't dare glance at his lover, but he knew Styles was thinking the same thing he was: that the Irishman had revealed the fact that they were lovers. "He claimed you were sodomites and likely had been for years." It was only years of service that kept him in his place as their one secret remained a secret no longer. "Have you nothing to say to that?"

"What is there to say, Sir?" Mr Kennedy answered before either seaman could respond. "Wolfe, who has already been revealed to have been working for Napoleon while serving aboard this vessel, has made an accusation without any proof at all." 

Mr Bush added with a faint curl of his lips. "And, since neither Matthews nor Styles have ever shown any indication at all of being what Wolfe accused them of, there is no reason to punish them for it." 

"Excellent points, Gentlemen." Captain Hornblower glanced at each with a quiet smile. He then turned back to the crewmen. "I won't be reporting the accusation to the Admiralty, but I advise you to refrain from whatever behaviour caused Wolfe to make the accusation in the first place." 

Matthews saluted, hardly daring to believe what he'd just been told. "Aye-aye, Sir." 

Next to him, Styles saluted as well. "Aye-aye, Sir." 

"Good. Dismissed." The captain waved his hand and they left the cabin without delay. 

By silent agreement, they went down to the orlop and embraced each other tightly. Whether Captain Hornblower had believed the accusation or not, he had made it clear that he would do nothing about it without concrete proof. They had only to carry on as they had been for all these years and they were safe. It was a wonderful feeling.

  
**End**  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter 'Discussing Thoughts' in 'I'm Not Dead Yet!' takes place directly after the last scene.


	9. Christmas Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas with Matthews and Styles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometimes after _Loyalty_ and _Duty_.

**Christmas Leave**

Very rarely, in all their years of service together, had Ben Matthews and Matthew Styles been given leave together on Christmas. Some years, they had been leagues away from any port. Those years, the captain had often provided some sort of feast for the men and looked the other way when the ration of rum had made them more boisterous than before. Before they had become lovers, he and Styles had simply sat together, listening as the other men told Christmas stories and sang Christmas carols with them. After the change in their relationship, they'd often snuck into whatever hiding place they could find for a chance to share some private holiday cheer. As they'd grown older, they'd preferred to remain with the men again, sharing the occasional significant look.  
    
The times when they were in port at Christmas, but had been given separate leaves; they usually found a moment to slip away together to exchange Christmas gifts. When they both had leave, however, they would find an inn to reserve a room together. On days with good weather, they would wander through the port, enjoying the sights and sounds of a Christmas on shore before returning for a Christmas feast. On days with bad weather, they stayed in their room, huddling under the covers to conserve warmth. Or so they would tell anyone who might ask, but no one ever did.   
    
This year, Matthews thought he would have to resign himself to staying aboard the _Hotspur_ while Styles enjoyed his leave. As the boat was being prepared, Lieutenant Kennedy walked up beside him, returning his salute almost casually. "Sir."   
    
"Mr Matthews, why are you not belowdecks, preparing for your leave?" Mr Kennedy asked, a twinkle in his eyes.   
    
"I wasn't given leave, Sir," the bo'sun replied carefully, trying not to hope too much.   
    
"A mistake was discovered in that respect and the captain wished me to inform you that you _are_ to be given leave." The second lieutenant just barely winked. "Go join your shipmates."   
    
He hid his smile with great effort, pleased. His only acknowledgement was another salute. "Thank ye, Sir."   
    
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Matthews." Lieutenant Kennedy's voice was bland, but a slight nod indicated that he knew exactly what Matthews meant.   
    
Nodding back, the older man hurried to his quarters and quickly threw his things together and hurried back up to climb into the crowded jolly boat that was just about to leave for shore. The surprise on Styles' face as he automatically made room for his lover was almost comical and Matthews was forced to disguise his chuckle as a cough. "Matthews?"   
    
"Turns out I was supposed to be given leave, but wasn't told wit' th' rest o' ye," Matthews whispered, pleased that the crowded conditions of the boat gave him an excuse to press close to Styles.   
    
The bigger man gave him a sceptical look, but nodded and accepted the explanation.   
 

*    *    * 

After a day of enjoying the sights and an evening of good food and drink, Matthews and Styles retired to their room together. They retrieved their gifts for each other and sat down facing each other on the bed to exchange them. At his lover's insistence, the older of the two opened his first. Inside, he found a small ship carved out of wood. Close inspection revealed it to be a reasonable model of the _Hotspur_. Styles had made carvings of each ship they'd served on together; even the _Renown_ , and Matthews cherished every one. He smiled as he met Styles' eyes. "Thank ye, Matt."   
    
"Ye're welcome, Ben." Styles glanced down shyly, fidgeting with the gift in his hands.   
    
At some urging, from the older man, he tore the wrapping off. It was a book that children used to learn how to read, something that Styles was trying to do without much success. "I 'ope this'll 'elp ye to learn to read quicker."   
    
"Thanks." Styles carefully set the book aside and drew Matthews into a warm embrace.   
    
He smiled as returned the embrace, resting his cheek on the other man's broad shoulder. "Ye're welcome. Happy Christmas."   
    
"Happy Christmas."

**End**


End file.
